


Lavender Blue

by ButterflyGhost



Category: due South
Genre: Case Fic, Crime, F/M, Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-09
Updated: 2012-06-09
Packaged: 2017-11-07 09:07:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 37,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/429302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ButterflyGhost/pseuds/ButterflyGhost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which our heroes contend with Russian mobsters, sleazy lotharios, Stella's mother, and cooties.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Bad Day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dS_Tiff](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dS_Tiff/gifts).



> Tiff has got this bizarre gift for triggering casefics, and I really enjoyed this one. We talked a lot about Stella, and the nature of relationships in general, Fraser and Ray, and the nature of friendship... plus, of course... the fact that Ray's a poet on the outside as well as on the in. I decided this time not to torture Fraser too badly. All he got was a cold, and the excuse to be mothered by Mrs Vecchio. Hope you all enjoy!

There was no denying it. Ray seemed to be having a spectacularly bad day.

Fraser was still finding it difficult to predict his new partner's mood swings, but had thought he was getting a handle on it. His new found confidence, however, was shattered when he arrived at the 27th precinct to discover Ray in the throes of what could only be described as a tantrum.

"Where's Ray," he asked on arrival, and was pointed in his friend's direction by Francesca, who followed the gesture with a warning. "He's in a bad mood."

Evidently. Fraser could hear the banging from the canteen all the way from the bullpen.

"Do you know did he hear yet?"

"Hear what?"

"Oh... you've not heard?"

"Heard what?" There was an odd tone to this conversation, even by the standards of the 27th Precinct. Normally, Francesca would blurt out anything. Today, however, she sounded evasive. Fraser tilted his head at her quizzically, wondering what she was so nervous about.

"Oh... if you've not heard then..." she brightened. "Maybe it's not true. Might just be gossip. I mean, I don't know, I only just got here... You know what this place is like... forget I said anything."

Oh dear...

By the time Fraser arrived in the canteen the banging had escalated to thumps, rattles and curses. It sounded like the station house had its own resident poltergeist. Fortunately, however, the canteen was empty, except for Ray. It seemed the rest of the station house knew to avoid him when he was in this kind of mood. So the violent assault on the coffee machine was only witnessed by Fraser. Ray was thumping his fist repeatedly into the metal of the thing, and kicking it against the wall. Fraser hovered for a moment, thinking he should step back and let Ray work out whatever was bothering him in privacy. Then he thought of the damage Ray was probably doing to his knuckles.

He cleared his throat. Ray froze, then turned swiftly, and glared at Fraser, with a bullish expression on his face. "What?" He snapped the word out like a wet towel, and it stung. Fraser flinched. Normally it didn't bother him when people were less than polite... but Ray got under his skin more than most people. He found himself running through the catalogue of his memories, trying to figure out what he might have done to upset Ray.

Other than interrupting his private vendetta against coffee machines, there was nothing that sprang immediately to mind.

"I just... we agreed to meet up at lunch time."

"Oh." The tension left Ray with a suddenness that left him limp and sagging against the wall. "Yeah... yeah we did."

"Are you okay, Ray?"

"Yeah... I'm fine. Just dandy. It's all peaches."

"It's just that you..."

"Look, Fraser, I know you're trying to help, but just... just leave it, okay?"

"Okay."

Ray shook himself out, like Diefenbaker coming up out of the water, then slouched across to one of the canteen tables. He sat on it, with his feet up on the seat of a chair, and looked at Fraser apologetically. "Look... I'm sorry, okay? But you know, I just... I don't feel very hungry. You'll have to go on without me."

"Oh, don't worry," Fraser lied, "I'm not hungry either. Is there anything you're working on now? Since I'm here, I might as well make myself useful."

"Well, I'm not hanging around here... you'd think I had the plague."

"In what way?"

"In the 'oh look, Ray's come into the room, let's all shut up and pretend we didn't see him' way."

"You mean, you feel people are keeping something from you?"

"Yeah, I think people are kee... actually, you know what, maybe they aren't." Ray kicked out at the chair, and it scraped across the floor. He hooked it back with one foot, and started to rock it backward and forward... two legs, four legs, two legs, four. Fraser tried not to be distracted by it. "Maybe it's just me," Ray continued, gloomily. "I'm like a bear with a machine gun today."

"I thought it was a sore head?"

"Yeah, that too." He glowered, and Fraser chided himself for his bad habit of correcting his friend. He knew it annoyed him, but he didn't seem able to stop himself. Before he could apologise, Ray was talking again. Rambling, actually.

"No... actually, no... yeah. Yeah... might as well do it..." Ray's scowl vanished unexpectedly, and he started to laugh. "Yeah... Let's go visit the witch."

"The witch? I trust you are not referring to Inspector Thatcher?"

"No... not that witch." Ray was scowling again. "Stella's mother. I mean that witch."

"Oh... I didn't realise..."

"What, you didn't realise Stella has a mother? What, you thought she'd hatched from a dragon egg or something?"

"No..."

"Yeah, well, I'm sick of people round here all taking digs at her because she works for the DA. She's got feelings, you know."

"I never suggested otherwise."

Ray blinked, then rubbed his eyes wearily. "Yeah... yeah. I'm sorry, I guess I'm shouting at the wrong guy. Sorry."

"It's all right." Fraser patted Ray briefly on the shoulder. "So... why are we going to see your ex mother in law? Is she in some kind of legal trouble?"

"Nah... I mean, I don't know. I mean, no, probably not... she likes to over react to things, and then she, you know, she over reacts? But she 'requested' my presence. Actually, scratch that, she 'demanded' my presence. Like, you know, one of those things kings did, you know, when they'd er... send a messenger with a scroll and... what do you call it when you have to go to the king or he'll chop off your head?"

"A Royal Summons?"

"Yea, like that. So we'll go see what her majesty's after." Ray hopped down from the table, and shoved his hands in the back pockets of his jeans. "So... I need some moral support. You'll come too?"

"Certainly."

"Cool. So... better get it over with."

Ray seemed to have calmed down a little bit, but Fraser was going to stick close to him for a while, at least until he was certain that whatever was really bothering his friend was dealt with.

Ray shot him a look of relief. "Thanks, I just... yeah. Thanks for coming. Well, when you see her you'll understand."

…

Ray was, as usual, right in his appraisal of the situation. Fraser didn't like jumping to conclusions about people, but this woman made it well nigh impossible to withhold judgement.

They met her in the bar of her hotel. From behind she looked too young to be Stella's mother. Good figure, powder blue tailored suit flattering her waist. Her hair was artfully arranged, sun kissed golden with darker honey coloured streaks in it, more natural looking than nature itself. Then the woman swivelled on her stool, and Fraser startled a little at the incongruous face beneath those silken curls. What a pity, he thought. She must have been very beautiful once, before all that plastic surgery.

She flicked her gaze from Ray to Fraser, then back to Ray, and sneered. "What have you brought with you this time? What on earth is he meant to be?"

"I'm a Mountie, ma'am," Fraser interjected helpfully. "I first came to Chicago on the trail of the..."

"Oh for God's sake, man," she broke in, "I'm not actually interested. Nobody's actually interested." Languidly she lifted her cigarette to her lips, and inhaled, held her breath for a moment, then pursed her lips and sighed out smoke. She was moving as though she was a femme fatale in a black and white movie. Someone ought to tell her, Fraser thought, that smoking isn't considered attractive anymore.

"Mrs Hamilton," Ray was talking through a tense smile, and Fraser could sense just how much he wanted to crack. "We came because you said you needed help."

"Ah... yes. Well, it's all a lot of nonsense really. But I wondered if you could have a word with your … oh, I don't know what you would call him. Your boss. The person in charge at your police station, whatever it's called. Anyway, whoever he is, I want you to have a word with your 'boss.' There has been a... a slight misunderstanding." She pouted. "I did talk to Stella about it, but you know how she is. She point blank refused to help me."

Ray folded his arms across his chest, that brittle smile still frozen on his face. "Yes?"

"Yes, what?" She glared at him sternly and raised her pencil thin eyebrows.

"I mean, what do you want us to talk to our Lieutenant about?"

"Oh... 'Lieutenant.' Well, you understand, it's embarrassing for me to talk about, but I can't have this sort of thing on my record. I don't want people talking about it."

"Talking about what?" Ray sounded like he was rapidly losing patience. Fraser could almost see his last nerve fraying.

"It!" The woman barked the words. "I don't want people talking about it!"

"Mrs Hamilton," Fraser intervened before Ray lost what little grasp he had left on his temper, "I think what my colleague is trying to ascertain is the exact nature of your misunderstanding. What exactly happened?"

The woman gave him a long speculative gaze, looked him up and down from boot to hat, then rolled her eyes. "I thought you'd have heard by now, gossip being what it is. Never mind... well, the truth is... the truth is it's to do with my driving licence..."

"Oh, you got tickets you want to disappear, is that it?" Ray seemed relieved. "Well, it's not standard procedure, but you know, I'm sure I can look into it for you..."

"It's not tickets, you silly man." Fraser's teeth ground at the woman's tone, but she continued, seemingly oblivious to her own bad manners. "No... it's just... well, I was pulled over by a... I think the term you would use would be 'traffic cop.' And... I must have offended her in some way. Perhaps she was jealous, I don't know... but the thing is..." The woman cleared her throat, and looked away, obviously embarrassed. "Well, the thing is..." Beneath her foundation she was blushing. Apparently she could actually feel a real emotion, if only shame and self pity. "The thing is... I... well..."

"Oh God," Ray sounded disgusted, and not entirely surprised. "You got arrested for drunk driving."

"Don't put it like that! I wasn't really arrested... I mean, I wasn't held over night, they just... they just... You do know that I can make it financially viable for you to help me out here?"

"Oh great, bribing a police officer... let's add that to the list shall we? Just, fan crappy tastic." Ray strode away from the bar, leaving Fraser standing next to Mrs Hamilton. Fraser watched his friend, feeling somewhat at a loss. Should he follow him? Should he stand next to this... this truly horrible individual and wait for his partner to return?

Mrs Hamilton took the choice from him.

"So... you're a rather attractive young man. I'm sorry if I was sharp with you. What exactly do you do?"

"Well, I'm a liaison officer with the Canadian Consulate, and I work with local law enforcement on matters of joint national interest as well as..."

"Uh huh, uh huh," the woman was leaning back again, pretending interest, sucking on her cigarette, and giving him the kind of predatory look that made him uncomfortable, every single time. It must be the uniform, he thought. He couldn't for the life of him think why so many women were interested in him. "You know, a young man like you shouldn't bury himself in this kind of life."

"What kind of life?"

"Police work. It's corrupting. Working with criminals all day..."

"Isn't that what your daughter does?"

"Yes. Yes, and it's quite disgusting."

Ah, Fraser thought, and felt a tug of sympathy for Stella. Not just sympathy, but increased admiration. Somehow she had managed to carve a career for herself despite her mother's disdain for her chosen profession. And she had married Ray, despite her mother's obvious contempt. For a moment Fraser wondered whether he would have been able to work in a field his father hadn't approved of. He couldn't imagine going against the family's expectations like that. Stella was some woman. An appreciative smile tugged at the corner of his mouth for a moment. Unfortunately Mrs Hamilton saw it, and thought it was for her. She sidled up to him, and put her hand on his arm. "So... when are you off work?"

Oh good Lord...

Fraser smiled, blandly, and stood back. "I'm extremely busy today, Mrs Hamilton." He glanced across at Ray, wishing there was some telepathic method by which he could communicate his need to get out ASAP.

Almost as though he had heard him, Ray turned, and caught his expression. He nodded, made some more curt comments into the phone, and marched back across to Fraser.

"Okay buddy, we're out of here."

"Excuse me?" Mrs Hamilton's expression was moving from bored flirtation through irritation to outrage. "What are you going to do to help me?"

"Nothing."

The woman froze for a moment, then stood, for the first time, glaring like a basilisk at Ray. "How dare you..." she shook her head. "How dare you! After everything that my family has had to put up with from you! You... upstart, you complete and utter..." She hissed, and drew her hand back for a slap.

"Mrs Hamilton!" Fraser blocked her blow with his forearm, and inserted himself between her and Ray. "I must point out to you that assaulting a police officer will only result in your being arrested again, and brought down to the station."

"You're all the same. All of you." She was right in his face now, and he could see the ravages of plastic surgery more clearly. This wasn't just minor work, it was the result of many visits over a period of years. Fraser couldn't help himself. He felt sorry for her, excessively made up, dressed too young for her age, slightly tipsy as she was. The mistake was letting his pity show in his eyes.

"Don't you condescend to me, pretty boy," she snarled, and slapped again, this time striking Fraser across the face.

"Yeah, right, that's it lady." Ray seized his opportunity. "You are under arrest for assaulting a police officer, you have the right to remain silent, you have the right to..."

"Ray, this isn't entirely necessary..."

Ray glared at him, and carried on reading the rights, cuffing his ex mother-in-law as he did so.

She sneered at them both, and Fraser shook his head. He sympathised with Ray's actions, but he knew already... this was more trouble than it was worth.

…

"Have you finished?" Stella had finally stopped yelling at him. Ray held his breath waiting to see if it was a genuine break in hostilities, or just a breathing space.

Stella stared at him, all tense jaw and brittle gaze, then she let go with a sigh, and just looked miserable. "Surely," she said, wearily, "you could have thought of something else? Besides arresting her I mean?"

"Yeah... yeah, I could have..." Ray winced at her expression, but he had to be honest. Yes, he could have thought of something else. "But you know, I was within my rights. She had just smacked Fraser, you know, and she was trying to bribe a police officer."

"I know..." Stella walked to the window of her office, and leant her head against the glass. "She doesn't... she doesn't seem to know what she's doing half the time. I mean, since Dad died... she has, you know. She's got worse."

Ray felt a catch in his throat. He and Stella had been falling apart for years, but he still wished he could just hold her, and make it all better again. Holding her had never been a problem. They had been great at holding each other. The problem was letting each other go.

"Stella, you know I'm sorry..."

"Yeah, I know. It's not your fault."

"I mean... when we broke up... I wish I'd hung on a bit longer. I'm sorry about your Dad..."

Ray had liked Mr Hamilton. English, very proper, but never condescending. They had played pool together. The old man even allowed him to tinker around in the engines of his classic cars. And he'd never called him Stanley.

Mrs Hamilton called him Stanley. She also called him Pollack, or Mick, depending which of his parents she was insulting at the time. And Ray had enough of it... even before the marriage went pear shaped, he'd had enough. He stopped visiting Stella's family, even her Dad. One day the man just dropped dead, and Ray wasn't there. Not there for his girl, his Stella. He had promised always to be there, and then he had allowed work, and crap, and Stella's Mom to step in between them.

"Awh, Stella..." His heart went out to her. She looked so wretched standing there, with her face against the window pane. "Come here..." He tried to put his arm around her, but she turned, suddenly cross again, and pushed past him.

"That's all right Ray, you've done enough. Just... make it quick. I mean, get her processed and released quickly."

"Yeah..." As favours went, it didn't please him, but it was the least he could do, for Stella.

"Fine." She had her mask back on, and was briskly rifling through her filing cabinet. He supposed he was dismissed.

"Well, I'll ring you, let you know what happens."

"Yes, do that. Thank you."

Greatness, Ray thought, she was going on the steel face defensive, sounding like her mother. One thing he'd learned was never to suggest Stella sounded anything like the Spider Queen. Right now she did though. Things must be really bad. Stella must be very upset.

"See you."

She said nothing, and he left the room like the invisible man.

…

Breathe... she closed her eyes, and counted her heart beat. Breathe...

Ray had gone, and she was alone in her office for the first time in hours. She didn't know what she was feeling... anger with him, a secret gloating that he'd finally got to teach the woman a lesson, misery and shame that everyone would know by the end of the day, or just concern that her mother wasn't well. Again.

Once upon a time, when she'd felt like this, she would have turned to him, even in the middle of a fight, and hung on tight. They might have danced, might have gone to bed together, would certainly have loved each other. And it would have been better... better for a while at least.

Until the next day.

There was nobody now, nobody to hold onto her. For a while there had been Orsini... or she had thought there had been Orsini. A paternal figure, someone she had thought was safe. And she'd made a poor judgement. Well, she wasn't about to do that again. Just recently she kept making a fool of herself... she didn't need her mother to join in and make things worse. She didn't need Ray to join in and make things worse...

He was only trying to help.

He was only trying to get his own back...

"Shut up," she told herself sternly. Her voice sounded flat in the dreary office.

The fact was, she was lonely. She was sad. She missed her childhood sweetheart. Even more when he was in the room.

She sat behind her desk, and started organising her paperwork. That was something he would never, ever know. She didn't want him to know how much she missed him.


	2. Trigonometry

Jack was trying to concentrate on some very dull paper work. It didn't help that Tom was standing above him, in the middle of telling a long, and rather complicated joke. Well, it was one way to blow off steam, after what had so far been a rather unpleasant day. Just as his friend was about to deliver the punchline 'the voice of Jehova' broke in from Mount Sinai, and the entire bullpen went quiet.

"Dewey, Huey." The Lieutenant was standing in his doorway, arms folded across his chest, shooting daggers. He didn't even have to command them to enter the office. He jerked with his head, and went into the room, slamming the door.

The friends looked at each other. Jack raised his shoulders. "What," he asked, "I didn't do nothing."

"Neither did I."

Frannie, in passing, commented over her shoulder, "you're a couple of schoolboys. Hurry up, the headmaster wants to give you lines."

Feeling exactly like the schoolboy she said he was Jack pushed his hands into his pockets. Tom trailed him, furtively, as though by coming in second he might be invisible. Well, somebody had to be first through the door. Jack pushed it, and stood dutifully in front of the desk. Tom edged in nervously, no doubt still feeling like the new kid. Also like the new kid, he fidgeted.

Welsh was obviously pretty steamed about something. He made them sweat. He looked up from a folder as they came in, then looked back down again. With feigned disinterest he proceeded to ignore them for several long moments that felt like hours. Yeah, Jack knew it was an act, but it was still damned effective.

Finally, just when it seemed like Tom was going to crack and do something really stupid, like finish his joke, the Lieutenant put down his folder, sat back, and stared at them. He shook his head.

"You guys," he said, with great deliberation, "you guys really take the biscuit. Do you know that?"

"Sir? I'm sorry, Sir... I don't know what..." Tom still had that nervous new guy habit of talking too much to please the boss when he was worried. Jack closed his eyes. Shut up Tom, he thought pleadingly, can't you tell the Lieutenant's just working up to the real ass chewing?

"No, no, I can see that..." Welsh's voice was stony cold now. "I can see that you don't know much of anything really. Because, if you did know anything, you'd know to file your reports on time, so that I wasn't left unaware of any unusual events overnight. You'd know not to gossip about a colleague's mother in law, and then leave said colleague out of the loop. You'd bother to inform me that the mother of the Assistant State's Attorney had been arrested, not once, but twice, and you'd definitely not be standing around making jokes instead of doing real police work."

"To be fair, Sir, I was the one making jokes..." Jack groaned internally. It wasn't like he needed Tom to fall on his sword or anything. He got it, that Tom was trying to be noble, or fair, or something, trying to make up for the fact that he thought it was his fault they were in trouble. But Welsh was in such a strop that anything anyone said at this point would just make it worse. He'd have to explain to Tom, later, that when the Lieu was like this the best option was to let him get it out of his system.

"Well, I'm glad to hear that you have alternative employment possibilities should you ever find yourself out of a job." Tom stiffened, and gulped. "That doesn't explain the delay with the paper work, it doesn't explain the fact that you two were gossiping like a pair of fishwives, and it certainly doesn't explain why the one detective in this place who had a personal right to know what was going on was kept as much in the dark as I was. So. What are you going to do about it?" He made direct eye contact with both of them, then stopped talking.

Jack recognised this as the traditional point where he could speak up in his own defence.

"We're sorry, Sir, we weren't deliberately keeping the information from Kowal... Vecchio. It's just, he seemed to be in a bad mood, and nobody wanted to be the one to tell him." He and Tom weren't the only people who had withheld information from Ray, the whole station staff had been walking on egg shells round him. But Jack wasn't about to mention that. It would sound like playground whining... 'it wasn't my fault, Sir, she did it too!' The Lieutenant would not like that, not at all.

"Well, if you didn't want to tell Vecchio, then you should certainly have told me, shouldn't you? Can you explain why the reports weren't neatly typed up and filed appropriately?"

"We were out on a call this morning," Jack was on solid ground here. "A domestic dispute. We had to take the husband into custody, then visit the hospital to try to get a statement from the wife. I'm sorry the paper work was delayed, Sir, but it wasn't a deliberate oversight."

"It never is, is it?" Welsh had run out of vitriol, and slumped, rather, in his seat. "Can I just say one thing? Ask you both to do one thing?"

"Yes, Sir..." They spoke in unison, looking down at their feet.

"Just, can it with the gossip. You should have told Vecchio, not talked behind his back. Then he'd have been better prepared, and he mightn't have had to arrest her a second time. Do you have any idea how much crap is going to rain down on my head because of this? She's a very wealthy woman, and vindictive. Do you understand that?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Okay. Now, get out of here, and do whatever you're supposed to be doing. Oh... and call the supply clerk. Apparently the coffee machine has broken down again."

...

Fraser had been waiting with Dief for long enough that he started to worry. He was on the point of commanding Dief to guard the vehicle while he went looking for his friend, when he saw Ray, in the rear view mirror, approaching the car. He was unaware that Fraser had seen him, and was walking... trudging rather... with his head down, and his shoulders slumped.

He looked too raw. Fraser pulled the brim of his Stetson over his face, and made sure that his eyes were closed when Ray got into the car. He didn't want his friend to know that he had seen him like that.

"You have a nice nap, Fraser?"

"Just resting."

"So, what now?"

"Well, I'm off duty now. I imagine your work day has also come to an end?"

"Yeah," Ray sighed. "It's been one damn thing after another. Kids and graffiti, and noise complaints. Racists throwing bricks at people they don't like. Purse snatching. And then nobody tells me they arrested Stella's Mom, and it's like I'm in the twilight zone... and then I actually arrest Stella's Mom... and believe me, it's not like I haven't thought about it for years. But it sure takes it out of you."

All that, and you had to talk to Stella too, Fraser thought, but didn't say.

"Listen, we didn't have lunch, do you want to get a bite to eat?"

"I suppose I could be persuaded to eat. Were you thinking of anything in particular?"

"Well, I'm not in work tomorrow, so some place I can get well and truly drunk."

"You know I don't drink, Ray."

"So? It won't stop me. You play pool, don't you?"

"Well, I'm familiar with the..."

"Yeah, yeah. For you it's all algebra and maths and so on..."

"Actually, trigonometry, but yes..."

"Jeez, take the fun out of pool, why don't you? Look, I just want to sit somewhere noisy, have a beer, watch some sport, and eat greasy food till it's coming out my ears."

Sitting in a noisy bar was not Fraser's idea of a good time, but it was Ray's turn to choose a venue. And besides, if it helped the man unwind, so much the better.

"So long as you give me the car keys at the bar."

"Yeah, yeah. Fine. Jeez, Frase, I'm not an idiot." Ray sat up, put the car in gear, and started the engine. "But if I pick up a lovely lady, you back off, okay? We'll get a cab or something."

"Okay."

"Cause, I don't want to have to contend with all that," he gesticulated vaguely in Fraser's direction, then looked back over his shoulder as they backed out. "It's not fair on a guy... just give me a bit of space, okay?"

Fraser was aware of an old pattern re-emerging, from way back at the Depot, during his training to be a Mountie. He was always the designated driver, and his companions would forgo his company the moment an attractive woman came their way. At the time he had known perfectly well that he was being taken advantage of, and he eventually decided to stop playing chauffeur. But strangely it didn't bother him with Ray. It wasn't as though Ray made a habit of this kind of thing, and unlike his Depot "buddies", Ray actually was his friend. Tonight though he looked as though he needed to blow off steam. Well, Fraser mightn't think it the best idea, but he wasn't Ray's mother. He could keep an eye on him though, make sure he didn't get into any trouble.

Better not let Ray realise he had a babysitter though... with a sinking heart Fraser realised that he would have to pretend that he was enjoying himself.

…

Ray was already feeling slightly better. He'd had the beginnings of a killer headache when he got into the car, but the first beer had softened it, and now it was completely gone. Fraser had been sitting in a corner of the bar, looking rather uncomfortable in his civvies. He still managed to attract a lot of attention, even though he had changed out of his fire hydrant of a uniform. Ray grinned, and took pity on his friend. "Oy, Frase... over here." Fraser got to his feet, and made his way across, plastering a smile on his face. "My friend here," he pointed with his thumb to... what was his name, Dave? Pete? Who cared... "my friend here says this is an umpossible shot. So, what do you say, Fraser buddy? You gonna teach him, what do you call it, algebra?"

"Trigonometry."

"Tree go gnomery." Wow, the beer must be getting to him. He was finding it even harder than usual to find his words. Not only that... it didn't bother him at all. Yeah... beer. Made everything better. He grinned at Fraser. "Who cares? Teach him some tree go math."

Fraser shrugged, and took the pool cue. The tension went out of his shoulders, and he seemed to settle as he gazed at the mathematical problem before him. He tilted his head like a bird, and walked around the table, examining the best angle. Ray chuckled. He knew already that Fraser would make the shot.

"No one can make that shot," Dave, or Pete, or Simon, or whatever the hell his name was said, as though he had heard him thinking. Then he added, "not from that angle."

Fraser gave the faintest glimmer of a smile, leaned over the table, drew back the cue and … bam. The cue ball hopped over the ball that was blocking it, bounced against the wall, and spun back to whack in three, one after the other. Click, click, long roll and... click. The group who had been standing around watching started enthusiastic applause, and Fraser straightened himself, blinking as he came out of his math trance, appearing somewhat surprised by the attention. Ray put down his drink, and joined in the clapping. "Told you," he said, "I told you he could do it."

Yeah, he was feeling a hell of a lot better. Now if he could only play pool like Fraser...

…

Ray wasn't answering his cell. Stella sighed. He wasn't at work, and she'd tried ringing his home. He wasn't answering there either. Probably he was screening his calls.

I can't believe I'm doing this, she thought. He's bound to get the wrong idea...

Oh, don't worry about it, he's a big boy now. We should be able to talk like grown ups... And I can look after myself... She pulled a face at herself in the mirror, as she applied make up. She was not looking forward to today at all. This was horrible, she thought. As if yesterday hadn't been bad enough, her mother had to go and spring this new thing on her. And the worst of it was the woman was gloating... she seemed to think she'd scored a point, or won something in a competition. Instead of seeing what was actually happening which was...

Well, it was just horrible. Stella might not like her mother, but she was still her mother. She couldn't let her be taken advantage of like this.

Urgh. It was horrible. And the only person she could think of who might possibly understand was Ray.

Grimly she straightened her shoulders, and spoke to her reflection aloud. "I need to talk to someone, that's all. Someone who understands what she's like." Her reflection stared back at her, judgementally. "Oh, don't look at me like that. It's not like you've been much help." Cross with herself she turned, grabbed her briefcase, handbag and car keys. She'd have to bite the bullet. She really couldn't think of anyone else who would understand... this. This bloody mess with her mother. And Ray... well, he might still act like a teenager with a crush half the time, but he was a good man. He wouldn't take advantage.

She was right, as it happened, in her guess that Ray was at home. She was, however, somewhat surprised by who opened the door.

…

"Ah, Ms Kowalski." Fraser hid his discomfiture well. "Did you have a breakfast date with Ray...?"

"Breakfast date? What are you talking about?"

"Oh, I just wondered..."

"What are you doing here?"

"Here? Now?" Fraser blinked. "Well, I was sleeping on the couch. Other than that..."

Stella pushed her way past him into the living room. There was the detritus of a Chinese takeaway on the table, and several empty beer bottles.

"You took him on a bender?"

"Excuse me?"

"No," she let out a sigh, sounding disappointed. "You babysat him."

"I wouldn't put it quite like that..." Fraser thumbed his hairline uncomfortably. It was, in fact, exactly how he'd put it.

"Is he..." she lowered her voice, looking to the bedroom door, "is he okay?"

"Well, he'll probably be a little dehydrated. I did make him drink a glass of water with dispersible aspirin in it, but I imagine he'll have a headache..."

"How come you're not hungover?"

"Why would I be hungover?"

"Oh... right, you don't drink. Good for you. Look..." she turned to leave the apartment, "when he wakes up, when he's in a fit state, you know... could you tell him... tell him to ring me at my office. I really need to talk to him."

"I'll pass on the message." Fraser tugged his ear, watching her go. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

She turned with a Medusa glare that actually made him take a step back. "If I need help," she stated, icily, "I'll ask for it."

"Understood."

She nodded curtly, then turned and left, her heels making clipping noises as she went.

"Wow," Fraser let out a breath, and turned back into the apartment, shutting the door. So, that was Stella... a force of nature, perhaps. Well, she'd have to be to survive her mother. Come to think of it, it was unnerving how much like her mother she appeared when she was... frosty was the word.

He would keep that opinion to himself, however. He couldn't imagine it would go down well with Ray.

Speaking of Ray... Fraser went into the kitchen, and started rummaging around to find any useful ingredients, that he could use to provide nutritious, hangover soothing drinks.

Coffee, chocolate, sugar. Good Lord, did the man not have actual food in the house? Fraser was not the greatest culinary expert on the planet, though Ma Vecchio and her family had done their best to teach him a few recipes... but he did at least have some staples. Even in the literal cardboard box he called kitchen, stored in the corner of his office.

Eventually Fraser put a pan on to boil, added the mixed spices that he found in the back of the cupboard, a few broken bits of a cinnamon stick, a little bit of concentrated apple juice (and there was only a very little bit of apple juice, so it was the best he could do) and several spoons of honey. Fraser stirred, and sniffed the liquid, then took a quick taste of it. Not too bad, in fact, though how it would appear to a man with a hangover was a very different matter.

He heard a groan from the living room. He poked his head around the kitchen door, and saw Ray, wrapped in a blanket, shambling over to the sofa, where he dropped, and sat sagging, with his head on his fists.

"Good morning, Ray."

"Shoot me. My gun's loaded. Just shoot me now."

"That would be a drastic solution to a temporary problem."

"I don't care."

"You're dehydrated. You'll feel better when you've got some liquid down you."

"Please tell me you're not cooking breakfast through there. If you start cooking egg and bacon I'll have to kill you instead."

"No, it's a hangover cure." Well, it wasn't a traditional hangover cure, by any means, but the power of a good placebo was in how you sold it. "Sip it slowly, and take it with water, you should start to feel better fairly soon."

"What, is it some sort of herbal remedy?"

"Something like that." Fraser poured the concoction into a mug, and decided to leave bits of bark floating on it, for extra psychological value. "I'm putting some aspirin in water for you as well... ideally I would have used willow bark, but there was none available so..."

"Oh for the love of God. Give it me." Ray groped out with his hands, and Fraser sat, carefully, next to him, balancing the glass of water and mug of hot honeyed water on a tray. Ray took the cold water first, and managed most of it, before putting his hand to his mouth, and spasming. Although he went pale, he managed not to vomit.

"Do you want me to get a bucket?"

"Do I want you to... no. No... I'm sorry." His colour was a bit better now. "Just... thanks. Hey, are you in work today?"

"Not today." He had already phoned in with excuses, before taking Ray's phone off the hook. Not that Ray needed to know that.

"Well, that's something. At least I didn't screw up your whole day." Ray took a sip of the honeyed water. "Hey, this is good... what's this, twigs?"

"Bark."

"I think it's working. My headache's feeling better."

"Good. That's good."

Ray suddenly yelped out a laugh, then winced, then chuckled again. "What about last night? Shame we're cops. We could have cleaned up with you playing pool. Never seen anything like that... Where'd you learn to play like that? The Yukon?"

"Well, actually, my playing has improved since I came to Chicago."

"Really? What, is it something in the water?"

"No. Your predecessor, the other Ray Vecchio... he gave me some pool playing tips."

"Well, when he gets back he can teach me some. That was just greatness..." Ray closed his eyes, and began to drift off again. Fraser got to his feet, moved the cups out of range, lifted Ray's legs up onto the sofa and tucked him in. He'd probably be out of it for another hour or so. When he woke up again he'd pass on Stella's message. Until then... well, he could use the opportunity to buy some groceries. And then... well, he could always feed Ray's turtle.


	3. Dinner with Stella

This time when he woke up the headache and the nausea were gone. He stretched out on the sofa. Wow, he almost felt good.

"Hey, Frase, dunno what was in that tea of yours, but you should, you know, take out a patent or something."

No response. Ray opened his eyes, and pulled himself back up to a sitting position. "Fraser?" Dammit, he was an idiot. Why would he expect the guy to sit around all day waiting for him to sober up? And why was he feeling disappointed that he wasn't here? After all, he'd done more than enough, what with the ride home last night, the hangover cure, all that stuff. You couldn't ask for more from a friend.

He stood up, pulling the blankets around him, then realised he heard a voice in the kitchen. Yeah... that was Fraser. Sounded like he was arguing with someone on the phone. Jeez... he sounded really pissed about something. It wasn't like Fraser at all to sound so... so snarky. Who the hell was he talking to?

"I heard you the first time... No, that's not particularly helpful...Yes, yes, I heard the one about you, Buck and the polar bear, I don't quite see how that's relevant to the current situation... Okay, yes... fine, I'll remember that one. Is that it?" Pause. "Great, vanish, why don't you? Perfect." Longer pause, and a sigh. "Completely, and utterly unhinged."

"Hey Fraser," Ray wandered into the kitchen, trying not to feel uncomfortable in his own apartment. "Who were you talking to?"

Fraser froze, a hunted expression on his face. "Uhm... I... I was rehearsing."

"Rehearsing?"

"Yes, in a manner of speaking... it's a creative exercise of sorts... it's a... well, it's a..." He cleared his throat and rocked his jaw from side to side, making a cracking noise as he did so. "It's difficult to explain." He turned back to what he was doing. It seemed to involve an unfeasible amount of ingredients. "Assuming that you feel well enough, I thought I might make us a lasagne."

"You following Ma Vecchio's recipe?"

"Of course."

"Hey, yeah... that should be good. Where's Dief?"

Fraser pulled a face. "I visited the Vecchios for some help with the recipe, and Dief chose to stay there for the evening."

"Oh, he'll like that." Ray chuckled. "I can just see him sitting under the table, begging for treats."

"They'll probaby set him a place at the table," Fraser said. "Ingrate."

"Don't worry, you know he'll make a fuss of you when you pick him up."

"If he's not attached himself to Francesca." Fraser shook his head briskly, and changed the topic. "I hope you don't mind that I've taken a liberty, but I've invited a guest."

"Oh yeah?" Ray grinned. "Hope she's sexy."

"Ah, well... I couldn't possibly say..."

"Oh so she's a she then? So, who is she?"

Fraser cleared his throat, and looked even more uncomfortable. "I invited Stella."

Ray went slack with shock. "You what?" He didn't know whether to feel angry, astonished or hopeful. What came out of his mouth, however, sounded very like anger. "What the hell did you do that for?"

"Well, I'm sorry Ray, but she seemed very upset about something, and she does need to talk to you..."

"Stella's upset? Why didn't you tell me? What's going on, Fraser?"

"I don't know. She wouldn't tell me. She says she needs to talk to you, that you'll understand."

"It's that crazy ass mother of hers again, I just know it. Jeeze, Fraser, you should have woke me up."

"You weren't at your best, and I think, to be honest, that she might feel a little calmer discussing it over a decent meal at the end of the day rather than trying to cram it in between work commitments."

"So, when's she gonna be here?"

Fraser glanced at his watch. "In about an hour."

"Argh," Ray growled at himself, and began to stomp to the bathroom, then swung round, folding his arms across his chest. "You know now I've got to get myself cleaned up? Don't want Stella telling me off for going on a bender."

"Ah... Ray, I'm afraid she already knows about the bender."

"Oh you're taking the piss. What, she knows?" Just his luck... "Yeah... of course she knows." Scowling to himself Ray mooched to the bathroom and stared at himself in the mirror. He'd have to scrape himself into shape if he was going to be entertaining the Stella. Something he had often fantasised about since the divorce... but not like this. It sounded like it was going to be a council of war, with Fraser acting as the United Nations. "Great," he muttered at his reflection. "Just... greatness. My joy is complete."

…

Stella stood outside the door to Ray's apartment, trying to drown out the suspicion that she was making a tremendous mistake in coming here. Ray had obviously been shaken up by her mother the day before. It had got under her skin too, raised all sorts of old memories and ghosts... but she was always better able to cope with it than Ray. His problem was that he ran around with his heart on his sleeve. Which was a mistake where her mother was concerned, because she took every chance she could to trample it. Stella couldn't figure out how Ray could get through a single day, wide open as he was. Anybody could bruise him. He felt too much. She, on the other hand, had learned long ago to batten down the hatches, and show no weakness at all. Even so, her mother could still get past her defences. As for this most recent development... well, that had really got to her.

This time Ray answered the door. He'd obviously gone to some effort to make himself presentable. She froze her face, because she really didn't want to smile at the sight of him, freshly scrubbed, with his hair spiked up in hopeful turrets, smelling of warm aftershave. If she gave him the smile she felt welling up inside her he'd take it the wrong way... and then, well, maybe she'd take it the wrong way too. And she knew how that always ended up.

"Hey, Stella," Ray gave his big hearted smile, wide open again, like a little kid, and stepped back to let her in. "You look beautiful."

She looked at him, and despite herself a trace of a grin crept across her face. "Of course I do." She paused in the doorway, inhaled, and raised her eyebrows. "Something smells nice."

"That will be me," he quipped, and she rolled her eyes.

"I meant the dinner... what is it, something Italian? When did you learn to cook?"

"Ah... that'll be lasagne. Fraser did dinner... yeah, it should be good. It's a family recipe."

Yeah, she thought, thank God the Mountie's here. It was the only reason she'd agreed to come. If he was playing gooseberry there wouldn't be any misunderstandings. Well, that was the plan. "Canadian lasagne?" Stella raised an eyebrow. "That should be interesting."

"Vecchio lasagne... I mean, original Vecchio, you know, the guy I'm covering for."

"Well, he should open a restaurant when he gets back," Stella dropped her handbag by the sofa, and sank down wearily. She wanted to kick off her shoes, but didn't want to get too much at home here. "Smells really good."

Ray plopped down next to her. His arm was on the back of the sofa, and she could tell that he was itching to reach across. It reminded her of trips to the cinema, when they were still 'courting' as her father put it, when he would sidle his arm behind her, and she'd pretend not to notice. No chance of that now. Ray's arm dropped back to his lap, recognising its defeat. "You look really tired, Stell," he said gently. "Are you okay?"

"Look, can we talk about it later?"

"Whatever you say... but... you know, if you need anything."

She glared at him. Why did he have to be so... so nice? "Right now I just need a bit of peace."

He nodded, looking at his knees, as though they held the answer to everything, and stood back up again. "I'll put some music on."

"Thanks." At least they had the same taste in music. She shut her eyes, and sank deeper into the sofa, letting the music sink in. This had been a very bad day.  
…

"Shut up, Dad," Fraser was panicking in the kitchen, and talking very quietly. He didn't want Ray stumbling upon him again in the middle of a family argument, let alone Stella, who would probably use her legal expertise to get him committed.

"Son, all I'm saying is that it's not a good idea to get between a man and his wife."

"They're not married, and I'm not getting between them. I'm just cooking them dinner."

"That's very kind of you, but I think Ray would thank you more if you just stepped out once dinner was served, and let nature take its course."

"Nature take its course? Do you listen to yourself?" Fraser was feeling rather incredulous, but was managing to keep his voice at a whisper. "They're divorced... the last thing they need is for nature to take its course."

"Well, she must have come around for a reason, and I doubt it's to sample your cooking." His father paused for a moment, and peered at the lasagne, which had just come out of the oven. "Though, I must admit, it seems to have improved recently."

"Thank you..." Fraser was thrown, somewhat, by the compliment.

His father, however, returned rapidly to form. "But just to remind you, she did say that she wanted to talk to Ray about something only he could help her with. That sounds pretty matrimonial to me..."

"I don't think she meant it that way..."

"Well, don't listen to me." Bob sounded huffy. "What would I know about marriage, after all?" He popped out of sight, with the suddenness of a slammed door, and Fraser scowled at the space where he wasn't.

"Not much," he muttered, and started stirring balsamic vinegar into the salad sauce.

…

Dinner improved everybody's mood.

"Wow, that's nearly as good as Ma Vecchio's," Ray stated, pushing back his chair, and crossing his legs. "Seriously, that was good." He patted his stomach to emphasise his point. "I wish I wasn't full, I could go for that again."

"Thank you, Ray. It's really not that difficult if you follow the recipe..."

"Ray can't cook," Stella interjected sharply. "It's a point of masculine pride."

"No it's not. I can make sandwiches."

"Actually, yes... very creative sandwiches," Fraser spoke up, defending his friend. "I don't think I'd ever had a sloppy joe before, and the mustard and baloney was very nice. Crisp lettuce, and..."

"Okay, he can make sandwiches. And boil an egg. So long as he remembers to get the ingredients in, and doesn't get distracted and forget the pan is on."

Ray barked out a laugh. "Do you remember the exploding eggs?"

"How could I forget? I can still smell them." Stella brought her hand up to her face, and managed to keep it straight.

"So," Fraser started clearing the plates, "if you'll let me do the dishes, I'll leave you two to discuss your business."

"Actually," Stella squirmed uncomfortably. She wasn't used to asking for help. "I'd sooner you heard this too. I think what I'm about to say... well, I think the situation warrants investigation."

"Are you in some kind of trouble?" Ray leant forward over the table, nearly putting his elbow in a dish of grated cheese. Fraser scooped it out of the way, and continued stacking, still obviously paying attention to the conversation.

Stella looked at her fingers, trying to distract herself from her embarrassment. "No... I'm not in trouble, per se, but... I think... I think my mother is."

"Is this about the drink driving? You know, we can't make an exception for her..."

"Nor would I expect you to." Stella reverted to a stony faced reserve. Why would he think that? Didn't he know her at all? "The problem is Steven Packer."

"Not... not that little slime ball again? She's not trying to marry the two of you off again?"

"No." Stella's heard her voice go suddenly small, and cringed at how vulnerable she sounded. "No... they're... they're engaged."

Silence descended and Ray froze, staring at Stella incredulously. Finally he blurted out, "so what, she's finally lost her marbles? I mean... what on earth possessed her?"

Fraser cleared his throat. "Who, if you don't mind my asking, is Steven Packer?"

Ray sneered, and answered with a growl. "He's a what do you call it, an opport, apport..."

"Opportunistic little shit," Stella provided, used to finishing Ray's sentences when words failed him. As they often did where her mother was concerned. The woman made him nervous, and when he was nervous his brain had a tendency to go blank. "Steven Packer and I went to school together," she explained. "He was always manipulating people. Had an amazing knack for getting people to like him, even the teachers. Never worked at anything, thought the world owed him."

"Rich too," Ray added, "well, he'd have to be to go to Stella's school." He glanced at her apologetically. "That or really really bright. Or both of course." He smiled across at Stella. "Some kids got in on scholarship. And Stella would have got in anyway. She always was bright."

Stella ignored the compliment. "He was just rich," she continued. "And he seemed to think being rich was a... a virtue, I suppose. That if you didn't have money you weren't anybody." She looked away from Ray, embarrassed again at the memory of how her social set had treated him. At how she had treated him, and how he had so sweetly and innocently taken it.

"And the slime ball was after Stella," Ray carried on the story. "He was after her father's money, I suppose."

Fraser rubbed his eyebrow. "So, when you married Ray," he said, "I presume your mother claimed it was about the money?"

"Oh no," Stella shook her head vigorously. She suddenly realised that Fraser might think that Ray had been after her for her money, and she couldn't have that. "She'd already wrapped my Dad round her little finger. Told him it would build character if I had to work for a living. Basically, she cut us off. I think she thought Ray would dump me when the money dried up." She smiled at her ex husband, with a ghost of gratitude. "He didn't, of course."

"And now this Steven Packer is engaged to your mother, and you think it's about the money?" Fraser put it as a question, but he obviously already knew the answer.

"Yes. I know its about the money. I mean I lo..." she stuttered on the unfamiliar word. How on earth had that popped up? "I care for my mother's well-being, of course. And I'm worried about her marrying this..." she curled her lip with disdain, "this person."

"Well," Fraser looked sympathetically between Ray and Stella. "I do understand your concern, however, the man in question, while quite possibly abusing your mother's trust, is not actually breaking the law."

"I'm sorry Stell, but he's right."

"That's the thing though," Stella firmed her jaw and turned her gaze from Fraser to Ray, staring directly into his eyes. "I'm almost sure that he is."

"He is what? Breaking the law?"

"That's right."

Ray stood up, and started to pace nervously. Stella closed her eyes. Good God, couldn't he ever just sit still? What was it with that man and jittering?

"How's he breaking the law? What's he doing, Stella?"

"I'm not sure..." she felt discouraged for a moment, then ploughed on. "But his finances don't bear close examination. I've looked into his businesses, and there are some aspects which look less than honest."

"Yeah?" Ray sat down, scraped his chair backward, then stood up again. "So something queer's going on. What?"

"His employee records don't look right. If you check his list of employees, most of them seem to vanish. There's no paper trail, they don't seem to pay taxes."

"So you're saying, like, they don't exist?"

"That's right. And if they don't exist, if he has no employees, how is he making money?"

"Hmm." Fraser folded his arms, and stared straight ahead with a focussed gaze, at nothing.

"What? What are you hmming about Fraser? You know I hate when you do that." Ray looked at Stella, apologetically and explained. "Hmm is Canadian for, 'I've got an idea, but I'm not going to tell anyone about it.'"

"No, no..." Fraser waved one hand dismissively. "I just wondered why the IRS aren't involved in this?"

"I have mentioned it, but their investigations can take quite sometime, and... to be honest, I had to do quite a bit of digging before I noticed what was going on. It could take years for investigators to find him guilty of fraud... and by then he could have cleaned out my mother and fled the country."

"It would serve her right," Ray said, sourly.

Stella gave him a poisonous look. "In case you have forgotten, she's my mother."

"Yeah, well, she should behave like your mother, not your, what do you call it, not your rival."

Stella said nothing to that, and Ray sat back down again, looking at the floor, obviously ashamed. "I shouldn't have said that. Sorry Stell."

"Hmm."

"Oh, what now Fraser?" Ray glared across at his friend, taking out his frustration on him. Stella sympathised with the Mountie. She remembered that when they were married they frequently unloaded their frustrations on each other in just such a way. It was probably easier for Ray's partner though. They just worked together. It wasn't like they were married or anything.

Fraser looked at her thoughtfully. "I take it, Ms Kowalski, that you would like Ray and I to conduct an investigation on your behalf?"

"Yes," Stella whole body gave way to relief. "Yes, yes I would."

"We can do that," Ray leaned across the table. "You want us to check into Steven Packer, we can do that." Of course he would help, she thought. Not just because he still cares for me, but because he's wanted to get back at Packer since we were all in school together.

Never mind. She should have known that Ray would help.

"Yes, Ms Kowalski," Fraser added his voice. "We will do all we can to help."

"Thank you," Stella breathed out her tension, for what felt like the first time in days. "Thank you both, very much."

She glanced across, gratefully at Ray, and startled a little when she saw his face. He let flash an abrupt grin at her, something cruel. Stella knew him too well. He was thinking of Packer, what he'd like to do to him. She raised an eyebrow slightly, and gave him a measured look. No, she thought, speculatively, he doesn't look so sweet now. Not at all.


	4. Underwear with Attitude

Fraser woke to the sound of banging on the Consulate door. He jerked straight from sleep to a sitting position, then sprang to his feet. He stumbled slightly over Dief, who ignored the insult, rolled on his back and returned to his slumbers. Still groggy he proceeded rapidly down the corridor to the source of the noise. It must be urgent... he couldn't think who would be making such a racket at quarter past five in the morning.

Hiding his body behind the door he swung it open slightly, allowing only his head to peek through, before withdrawing it rapidly from Ray's oncoming knuckles.

"Woah, Fraser! I nearly knocked on your nose."

"I noticed."

"So, can I come in?"

"Um.. yes, I suppose?" Fraser stepped back, opening the door enough to let Ray through, then shutting it on the grey drizzle that streaked the street.

"You're kidding me," Ray was staring at his red long johns. "You even sleep in uniform."

"It's not uniform, it's underwear."

"Wow... that's underwear with attitude, it's like, 'hey, I belong to a crazy man, don't mess with me.'"

Fraser was still slightly fuzzy with tiredness, or he'd never have said it. The comment popped out before he could stop it. "Yellow rubber duckies."

Ray went pale.

Oh dear... too late to call it back.

"You mean you saw my..."

"When I was helping you to bed, yes."

"It's not fair to laugh at a guy's boxers."

"It's just underwear with attitude, Ray. If you can laugh at my long johns I can laugh at your boxer shorts."

Ray glared at him, and Fraser folded his arms defensively across his chest.

"May I ask what you are doing here, Ray?" He cracked his neck, with a satisfying popping sound. "I assume you didn't arrive here at this time of the morning so that we could exchange pleasantries about each other's undergarments?"

"No, I, er... I came to see about getting started on the Stella case."

"At this time of morning?" Fraser realised he was sounding a little shrill, and turned to make his way back to his office.

"I thought you'd be awake. You know, you're like... I dunno, I just thought you got up with the lark or something."

"I am unaware of any larks in the immediate vicinity. And though I am an early riser, I do actually sleep at night."

"Hey, sorry I woke you up buddy," Ray sounded genuinely regretful. "I didn't think."

Fraser smiled at his friend, crankiness forgotten. "Well, since I am up, we might as well get started." He looked at Ray hopefully. "Could you do me a favour?"

"Yeah, buddy, anything."

"Could you put the kettle on?"

Ray rolled his eyes. "You'll want that pemmican tea or whatever it is?"

"Just regular tea would be fine. And you'll find coffee as well."

"Right." Ray brightened at the mention of coffee, and disappeared in the direction of the Consulate kitchen. Fraser stepped into his office, and got dressed as quickly as possible. As he knelt to tighten the straps on his boots he glanced across at Dief, whose legs were twitching in his sleep. Probably dreaming about giant doughnuts. Fraser smiled, reached out a hand and scratched Dief's belly. The wolf groaned in his sleep, and rolled on his back, tail wagging.

"If you care to join us for breakfast we'll be in the kitchen," Fraser said. Dief, being sound asleep, didn't reply. "Well, you were asked," Fraser pointed out, then made his way to the kitchen.

…

Steven Packer lay very still and quiet for a moment longer, then, when he was sure she was sleeping, got quietly out of the bed, and shuffle footed his slippered way across the floor of Clarice's hotel suite. Expensive, thank God. All mahogany, a huge balcony window looking out on the city skyline. Dramatic, and beautiful, and oozing wealth. This was all to the better. When he entertained his clients later today, when the old tart was out spending money and boozing, he would inspire confidence. They didn't have to know that it wasn't his money that had paid for this suite.

He sat again with her brief case, wondering what on earth the combination was. He had tried any combination of numbers that it might be, her birthday, the day she married money, the day she was widowed and came into her own fortune, her measurements when she was a young and beautiful débutante. Nothing. He had even tried consecutive numbers, ascending and descending multiples, and in a fit of desperation the digits of pi. She probably didn't even know what pi was, he thought, as, yet again, the lock failed to open.

What else was there? He scratched his head in frustration, and resisted the urge to curse. He looked across at her, crumpled looking, with her make-up smudged, and shadows under her eyes. Good God, he thought, she carries on like she was still a wild young thing. If he squinted he could see she had been beautiful once, but it took all his acting skills to feign attachment. Think of the prize, he told himself, think of the prize...

For a moment a memory of Stella flickered through his head. Oh, of course he'd never loved her. He wasn't, in fact, at all sure that anyone loved anyone, though perhaps people couldn't help but love their family. But love in general, it was nothing but a giant confidence trick, lies that people told to get laid. No, he hadn't loved Stella, but he'd certainly lusted after her. And if he could have snagged her instead of the mother then his sex life would be much more satisfactory. Still, he thought, c'est la vie. You can't have everything...

Oh. A penny dropped, and he tried the lock again, this time using Stella's birthday as the code. To his surprise, the case opened. He glanced furtively across at the sleeping woman. Well, who would have thought it...

He smiled, and took out a small camera from his jacket, which hung over a chair. Very carefully he pointed it over each sheet of paper, and took pictures. A little pin sized flash focussed tightly on the pages. He held his breath until the last page was copied, then he put everything back as he had found it.

Replacing the small camera in the jacket pocket he got back up to his feet, and went back to bed. Clarice muttered, and threw an arm over him. He grimaced for a moment, then relaxed. Money, he reminded himself. You're doing this for the money...

…

Yeah, so okay, maybe he should have thought a bit about it before dragging Fraser out of bed at thirty o'dark in the morning. But he couldn't help it, he'd been wired all night, not able to sleep properly for thinking about Stella, and that scum bag Steven Packer. Every time he felt himself relaxing it would pop back into his head. Packer's marrying Stella's mother? And the stupid woman's falling for it? What the hell is he up to?

He was rummaging through cupboards trying to remember where Turnbull kept the proper coffee as opposed to that powdery instant stuff when Fraser came into the room. He looked much brighter now that he'd got himself into his uniform. Ray stepped aside and let Fraser take over the preparation of beverages.

"So, Ray, I presume you have some kind of a hunch, or insight into the situation?"

"Well, I know the guy, I know he's got an angle. And it's got to be money, I mean, that's all the guy was ever interested in."

"When did you last know him?"

"Er, wow, quite a while ago." Ray scratched his head, feeling like Stan Laurel, trying to think back. "It's over ten years."

"Maybe he's changed."

"Yeah, right!" Ray shook his head in slow motion. "No, no, no... he won't have changed."

"How can you be sure of that, Ray?"

"You know what this guy was like? He just set out to make Stella miserable, to embarrass her." Ray felt himself growing tense again, with remembered anger. "He used to tell people he was going out with her. Even though she was really obvious about it that she wasn't. He used to follow her about, started following us about. And Stella, well she went to this really top drawer school. You know, so she wanted to keep it quiet about us."

"She wanted to keep quiet about you?" Fraser's face went very still, and mask like. "Why would she want to do that?"

"You don't understand the kind of school. They were all, you know, Ivy league types. I was... well, you know, I didn't fit in with that crowd. And she didn't want everyone to know. It would have been, er, it would have been embarrassing for her."

"Embarrassing?" Fraser put a mug of coffee in front of Ray, and a bar of chocolate. Ray appreciated the gesture, even though he preferred crunching m and ms first thing in the morning.

"Yeah, I mean like, really crippling, you know? Well, anyway, this guy, he was from her crowd, so he knew that. And this one time, I'm out with Stella, we've snuck out to dance, cause there's music in the park. And this guy, he comes up to us, asks Stella for a dance. And she says, 'no.' So he goes all nasty, angry with her... I thought I was gonna have to kick him in the head. You know? Anyway, in the end he shrugs, says it's okay, leaves us alone." He paused, and looked intently at Fraser, to make sure he was listening. "You know what he did? You know what that shit did?"

"No, Ray, what did he do?"

"He took photos of us dancing, and went and showed them to everybody. Told all her friends, it went all round the school. She was like, what's the word, ball coated..."

"Black balled? Boycotted?"

"That's the one. She was boycotted, they just froze her out."

"Ray," Fraser lifted his mug of tea with two hands, and held it in front of his mouth, as though he was hiding behind it. "I understand that you say she was embarrassed, but... it was, when you think of it, her fault as much as his."

"What do you mean by that?" Ray scowled at him.

"I mean... if I was 'dating' someone, I wouldn't do it secretly. If she had feelings for you, then she shouldn't have been ashamed of you."

Ray slammed his cup down, and glared at him, mouth opened to retort, then froze, and looked puzzled. "Shit," he said, as Fraser's words sank in. "Oh... shit." He turned his back on his friend, and stared at the kitchen door. "You... bastard. I never thought of that before." He shook his head. "You must think I'm an idiot."

"No, I don't think you're an idiot," Fraser said gently. "I think you just cared for her so much you didn't think about you."

"Yeah, well, you probably think she was a bitch."

Fraser didn't say anything, and Ray turned back to him with a challenge in his eyes. "Go on then, if that's what you think, why don't you say it?"

"Ray, she did end up choosing you over her inheritance," Fraser pointed out. "So however insecure she was as a teenager, she obviously got over it. People change."

"They do," Ray relaxed.

"So... this Steven Packer may have changed."

"Oh for the love of... Fraser! No he hasn't. I mightn't have told the best story to, er to show you what he's like, but he can't have changed. He really was a... really is a … a scum bag. Sorry Fraser, but that's the way it is. I mean, Jeez, he's marrying Stella's Mother! You've met the woman, what man in his right mind would marry that?"

"You're being uncharacteristically misogynistic, Ray."

"What?" Ray gawped at him. "You just made that up, didn't you?"

"I mean you're being rather sexist."

"Hey, I can't be sexist about Stella's mother. I'm not entirely sure she's a woman. I think she was replaced by an alien pod creature, or a robot from outer space or something. She's a... a fembot."

Fraser looked at Ray, with sudden concern etched across his features. "I wasn't aware you suffered from Capgras syndrome, Ray..."

"What? Speak English!"

"I mean, how long have you had this... belief about Stella's mother?"

Ray broke out laughing. "Fraser, I was making a joke."

"Oh..." Fraser looked relieved but puzzled in equal measure. "I'm sorry, I didn't realise... it wasn't funny."

Ray put his tongue out and crossed his eyes. "See? You didn't laugh at that either, you don't know funny."

"Ray," Fraser plonked his empty mug down on the counter. "Don't you think that perhaps we should actually do some investigating? Since nobody else is here, perhaps we could use one of the computers to check some databases?"

"Yeah, yeah... sorry, that's what I came here for in the first place."

"Come on then, let's see what we can find."

…

Clarice woke to a headache, and could tell from the light that it was far too early in the morning. She groaned, and rolled onto her side, feeling her age. She touched her face, and winced at it's texture. Nothing she did seemed to restore its youthful bounce and smoothness.

"Darling, Steven," she called out. "Be a dear, I need some water."

He stepped out of the bathroom, smiling. Oh, she thought, he is beautiful. Sun kissed hair, tanned... he practically glowed with a golden aura. And the way he looked at her, so warm. Despite the hangover, she was happy. She felt loved.

"Anything you ask for, honey," he replied, and went to the minibar to get her some bottled water.

She smiled back at him. She was such a lucky woman.

…

"Thank God I don't have to go to work today." Ray was leaning over Fraser's shoulder, glasses perched on his nose, staring at the screen. "This is going to take all day to chase up, you know?"

"At least," Fraser muttered. "Unfortunately, I do have to go to work, so I won't be available to help you until three o'clock."

"You're off work at three?"

"No, that's when the Inspector has scheduled me to 'liaise.'"

"Oh, right... which means you can swan around bothering Chicago cops, yeah?"

"That's essentially correct."

"Cool, well then, I'll meet you here at three, okay?"

Fraser nodded, distractedly. "Might I suggest, when the Inspector gets here, she won't be happy to see Consulate computers being used by the Chicago PD. I'll just print these off for you now. There's a lot to chew on."

"Yeah," Ray nodded. "I'll see if the Stella has time to go over this lot, and maybe I'll go interview the dragon queen."

"Do you mean Inspector Thatcher?"

"No... no, the other dragon. Stella's mother."

"Ah. Could I make another suggestion?"

"Can I stop you?"

"It might be an idea if you waited until I was available before you confronted Mrs Hamilton. There is less risk of misunderstandings arising, and you'll have a witness, should you need one."

"Fraser, I know this woman, I don't need backup to talk to her." He raised an eyebrow. "Though, I can see why you think I might. She is a bit fierce..."

"Actually, I think she's somewhat vulnerable," Fraser replied.

"Have you met her?" Ray's voice was perplexed, and Fraser turned in his chair to make eye contact.

"Yes. I have. And what I saw was a vain, frightened and bitter alcoholic, terrified of ageing, clinging to the memory of her youth because she thinks she has nothing else."

Ray stepped back, and stared at Fraser. "What... you..." He shook his head, frustrated. "You find excuses for everybody. I'm telling you, the woman's a witch."

"That's the second time you've referred to Mrs Hamilton as a witch. Fraser's voice brightened with interest. "Does she practise Wicca or follow one of the fam trad schools? It's an unusual religious path for someone in her social sphere."

"You," Ray said, enunciating each syllable slowly and clearly, "are, officially, a freak." The insult sounded almost affectionate, and Ray was smiling ruefully as he continued. "I didn't mean she was literally a witch, I meant she was a... you know, rhymes with witch."

"Ah," Fraser sounded disappointed. "That's a shame. The other would have made her more interesting."

"Whatever. Look, if you want me to wait for you before I see her, I'll do that. This lot, I'll look at it with Stella, and I'll go to the library. See, you're rubbing off on me. I'll be getting a library card next."

"You don't have a library card?"

"Don't sound so shocked. I do read you know. Just, if I read a book I like to own it."

"Understood." The documents had finally finished printing, and Fraser bound them in a manilla folder with two intersecting elastic bands. "There you are Ray, the fruits of our investigation so far."

"Greatness. Listen, I'll get out of here before your dragon turns up." Ray sketched a sloppy salute, and, bouncing on the balls of his feet, headed for the door. "See you later buddy, thanks for your help." He grinned over his shoulder, and was out into the street before Fraser had a chance to reply.

Well, time to wake up Dief, thought Fraser. He'll probably love running in the rain. For some reason the greater the opportunity for mess and mayhem the more Dief enjoyed his walks. Fraser switched off the computer, and made his way back to his office. Dief rolled, and growled at the attempted wakeup call. "Oh, don't complain," Fraser pointed out to Dief. "At least you got a decent night's sleep." Dief displayed his belly, and wagged his tail enthusiastically, and Fraser smiled as he put out breakfast for his lupine friend.


	5. Anorak

Steven was humming to himself as he got ready for the day. It was nice having seriously good clothes again, and he was buzzing with the excitement of today's meeting. These guys had real muscle, and with them backing him he could get his affairs in order before anyone knew there was anything wrong. There was only so much juggling a man could do. And he finally had access to the Hamilton accounts, should he need them. It was only a matter of time, of course, he'd have married her soon enough, but it was still nice to have the security. In case she changed her mind and started demanding a pre-nup again. But the stupid old woman was so blinded that she'd fallen for him hook line and sinker.

Not surprising... He smiled at himself as he smoothed down the material of his new suit. A silk wool blend, misty grey. He turned so that he had different views of himself in the mirror, and nodded. It really did suit his colouring. He wasn't vain, he told himself, just pragmatic. Was it his fault if he looked good?

Clarice was still sleeping in a tangle of sheets. He sighed. He'd have to get her up and out of here before his contacts arrived, and call up house keeping to get the place straightened out. "Hey, honey," he sat on the edge of the bed, and gently stroked her hair. "How's my princess?" She opened her eyes, blearily, and tried to hide under the pillow. He dipped his head down and kissed her on her cheek, cradled his hand under her head, and tilted her face toward him. She blinked, fuzzily, and he kissed her, with just the tip of his tongue as a promise of more later. She groaned, and sat up.

"I've got to go soon," he said, apologetically, "just wanted to see my angel before I left."

"Oh, Steven, you're such a sweetheart," she replied, then batted her eyes in an attempt at coquetry. "But I'm not such an angel, look at me... I'm such a mess."

"Nonsense, you look soft, and beautifully mussed up, and..." he kissed her again, and slid his arms around her, "and I'm the luckiest man in the world."

Looking a lot more cheerful now, Clarice sat up properly, and Steven turned to reach her a tray, with orange juice, and sparkling water. Next to the glasses were two little white pills. She pulled a face.

"I wish I didn't have to take these."

"Don't worry, they always make you feel better."

She sighed, scooped them up, and swigged them down with the water. For a moment she sat with her eyes shut, then she started drinking her orange juice. "So, what do you have planned for today?"

"Business meetings, you know. Boring, boring." He flashed her a grin. "Later on, we'll go out for dinner and a dance. Would you like that?"

"Oh, why would you want to be seen with an old crock like me," she wheedled, fishing for a compliment. He obliged with another kiss. She simpered, and pulled him closer to her.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," he said, pouring all of his well rehearsed sincerity into his voice. "I've got to work... later, okay? And I might have a little present for you." Finally the old hag got out of bed. He relaxed. Soon the pills would kick in, and she'd be hyper and cheerful, and off spending money, and he would be able to make the suite into a place of business. He supposed he should resent her spending the money, but it wasn't his yet, and besides, you had to spend money to make money. If she oozed wealth it just reflected better on him. He watched her sashay into the bathroom, and was so far in character that his fond gaze stayed on his face even when there was nobody looking. For a moment he wondered if other people actually felt any of the emotions they affected. He was certain that Clarice only cared for him because he was young and handsome. She might fool herself that it was love, but he knew better. It was just sex. Still, her self delusion was what he needed right now, and he was more than happy to feed it.

He smiled to himself again, and phoned housekeeping.

…

Ray was feeling rather deflated. He had turned up at Stella's office, just as she was arriving for work, with his bundle of evidence, and had been hoping she might be impressed by how speedily he and Fraser had been working on her behalf. Yeah, well, he should have remembered how grouchy she was in the morning.

"Look, thank you very much Ray," she had said, sounding anything but thankful, "but I have to get some work done before I can look at any of this. I have meetings scheduled, and a tonne of paperwork, so please..." she gave a tiny shake of her head. "Just come back later."

"When?"

"Oh... I don't know..." she glared at him, as though it was his fault that she was swamped. "Just, let's say three o'clock this afternoon?"

That was when he was due to meet Fraser. He opened his mouth to say so, then decided he could phone Fraser, get him to meet them at Stella's office. "Yeah, okay... see you at three then."

Stella softened, momentarily. "Thanks, you know, for this."

"Yeah, it was nothing," he replied, trying not to think of his sleepless night, and early start. He lifted a hand in a wilted wave, and made his way back down the steps, toward his car, stoically not looking behind him. If he had he might have caught the expression that flitted across Stella's face. For a moment she looked soft and sorrowful. Then she pulled herself together, and marched up the steps, to commence her day.

So, here Ray was, half past nine on a chilly morning, parked at a discrete distance from the Drake Hotel, feeling... well, miserable, again. As though he and Stella were still married, and still trying too hard to fix things, when really, there was nothing they could fix.

Damn it, this was his fault. He kept putting himself right back in this position, and he had only himself to blame. It wasn't Stella's fault. She was always the realist in their relationship. Why did he have to be so eager where Stella was concerned? So puppy dog in love. It was pathetic. He was pathetic. He remembered Fraser's expression, when he told him the story about Steve outing Stella to her classmates, and what he had said: "If I was 'dating' someone, I wouldn't do it secretly... she shouldn't have been ashamed of you." He cringed at the thought of it. Damn. How had he never noticed it before? She'd been ashamed of him even when they were first going out, even when they were teenagers. The whole thing was doomed before they'd even begun.

Don't think about it, just shut up, and think about something else...

For example, what was Stella's mother doing staying at this hotel? Sure, it was a swanky hotel, probably one of the oldest and most exclusive in Chicago, and it was right up Mrs Hamilton's street... but the woman didn't need to stay in a hotel. He couldn't imagine the palatial Hamilton abode needed to be tented for termites. He cracked a grin at that, then pondered some more. No, it didn't make sense. None of this did. Steven Packer marrying Stella's mother didn't make sense, unless...

It was to do with money, it had to be. Ray pushed his car seat back into a low incline, and slid down it into a comfortable slouch. He should have got coffee, he thought, but that would have to wait...

An hour and a half later Stella's mother emerged briefly into the chilly street, elegantly coiffed, then stepped daintily into a limo and was gone. For a moment Ray thought of tailing her. But no, he recognised Mrs Hamilton's 'let's go shopping' look. If he followed her he'd waste an entire day watching her spend more money in a few hours than he'd earn in months. He'd wait it out, see if Steven Packer turned up. Because there was something in this set up that...

"What the..." Ray's jaw dropped. There was Packer now, standing at the door to the hotel, smiling his golden boy smile, welcoming... holy crap. Was that who he thought it was?

Domnin and Krutov... Russian mobsters, no less. Shit.

Ray scrabbled for his phone. Officially this was a day off, but now he had something to tell Welsh, might be able to get some back up. It looked like Stella had been right to suspect Packer's financial dealings... and if those guys really were who he thought they were then... crap. Either Packer was seriously mobbed up, or he was in way over his head. And if he was in over his head, then this was 'body in the water' or 'buried in concrete' territory.

Either way, Stella's mother was in for a nasty fall.

…

Perfect, Welsh thought, just perfect. That Mountie rubbed off on people. Most people, when they take a day off, pay their bills, catch a game maybe, lie in. Ray, on the other hand, sniffs out a mob deal in the making, and drags the department into his shenanigans.

"You know the FBI will already be all over this?"

"Yeah, maybe, but you know what those boys are like. I mean, these are the guys who gave us Waco. Do you want to leave it to them? This is Stella's Mom... I mean, this is the Assistant State's Attorney's mother we're talking about."

"It's personal, you shouldn't be anywhere near it."

"Sir, I know it's your call, but I know these guys. I mean, I never met them, but I've worked their case. Transcribed hours of phone calls, looked through miles of video tapes, photos... I know how they work."

"That was one of your big jobs before you came to us?"

"Yes, Sir. I mean, just their English language ops, but still, it was a lot of work, and I do know them."

There was a long silence on the phone, and Ray held his breath. "Okay," Welsh let go of the word, reluctantly. "I'm probably going to regret this, but okay."

"Thank you, Sir."

"But I do not want you screwing this up, do you hear? I do not want you going in like a knight in shining armour, I do not want you deciding that you're going to save the damsel in distress, and I do not want you sitting alone on this."

"Yes, Sir. I understand."

"I hope you do. Now, just hang tight, I'm going to send out Dewey and Hewey..." Ray huffed out a little sigh of exasperation, and unfortunately Welsh caught it. "You don't have to like it, Detective, you just have to do as I say. You stay put exactly where you are until back up arrives. And," he added grudgingly, "I'm going to have to phone the Mountie. Since he probably got you into this he might as well keep an eye on you."

"He didn't get me into it, if anything I got him into it."

"To be honest, I can't say I care, Detective. However, sit tight, try not to start a mob war, and don't get into a pissing contest with Dewey and Hewey. Can you manage that?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Hmm..." Welsh sounded less than convinced. "Phone me when your back up arrives. We'll discuss the plan in more detail then." Another uncomfortable silence, then, "good luck, Detective."

…

Inspector Thatcher was not best pleased. She seemed, if anything, to be sulking in her office. She had strode outside to deliver the message from Welsh, and as Fraser stepped down from sentry duty she turned sharply on the spike of her heel, stalked into her lair (oh dear, Ray's terminology was rubbing off) and slammed the door. She hadn't been heard from since. Turnbull, on the other hand, was extremely excited. "A special mission," he said, enviously, as Fraser concluded his conversation with Welsh. "I wonder what it is? Is there anything I can do to help?"

Fraser was tired, drenched, and headachy from the early start, and feeling somewhat wretched from having stood guard in what was, frankly, miserable weather, even if he had been 'sprung' early as Ray would have put it. Normally Fraser wouldn't let guard duty get to him, but sometimes, some days, it did. He'd spent the last few hours worrying about his friend, sure that he was going to get himself into trouble, that he'd offer his heart on a plate to Stella, and she'd slap it away... not because she was being hateful, but because that was the nature of things, she had no choice.

He didn't want Ray to get hurt.

Under the circumstances, he didn't feel quite up to managing Turnbull's enthusiasm. He took his hat off, and shook it, letting the rain scatter in fat drops, before realising that he was making a mess in Turnbull's recently vacuumed hall.

"I'm sorry Turnbull... I didn't mean to..."

"Oh, it's quite all right, Sir." Turnbull was too excited at the idea of undercover to worry a great deal about having to take up a mop later on. "But if there is anything I can do to help... I mean, anything at all..."

Fraser cast around in his memory, to see if there was anything he could offer Turnbull that the man would enjoy and be good at. With a smile he thought of something.

"I was going to go to Father Behan's, to help with the fundraiser for the orphanage. They need entertainment for the youngsters, and I'd been asked to sing..."

"Oh, that would be wonderful," Turnbull beamed. "I'd love to help... any requests in particular?"

"Well, I'm sure that if you arrive in good time you and the Father will think of something."

In fact, Fraser expected to have time to get to the fund-raiser, but if he handed responsibility to Turnbull then it would free him up to keep a closer eye on Ray, just while this thing was sorting itself out. Besides which, Turnbull was actually very good with children, not a bad singer, and would no doubt enjoy himself tremendously.

Fraser had briefly thought of inviting Ray to the fund-raiser, before this whole mess with Stella's mother came up. Of course, now there was no point. He couldn't see Ray relaxing until this thing was over. But it was a shame... he was another man who was good with kids. Probably because, at least some of the time, he was a big kid himself. Fraser found himself smiling. Perhaps that was what he liked about him so much, the fact that, in contrast to himself Ray was a free spirit. Come to think of it, perhaps that was what first attracted Stella to him... she was more like Fraser than he would ever admit out loud. All restraint and discipline... and whatever secrets she kept were hers alone.

It made him uncomfortable, to think that he was like Stella in that way. Seen from the outside that iron control appeared rather cold and off-putting. Perhaps they both needed a Ray in their lives.

Poor Stella, he thought, who will be Ray for her now?

He blinked, and let go of his thoughts. Stop blithering, he told himself. You've got a job to do.

He sneezed. Not only that, he had a cold.

…

Dewey and Huey were crowded in the back of Ray's car, cracking jokes, and he was trying, very hard, not to go insane. How the hell any member of the public could walk past and not realise they were on a stake out was beyond him. Even in this lashing rain you would think someone would notice something. Yeah, the public could be stupid... or not stupid, just blind to what was going on around them. But surely one of them would walk past, notice the three grown men suspiciously watching the Hotel opposite? Like that bulky guy, hunched up from the rain with his hands in his pockets, running toward them now. Shit, what was their cover story?

The guy knocked on the door. Ray rolled the window down.

"Hey, Ray, let me in?"

"Fraser?" Hell, how had he not realised it was Fraser? "You look like a pregnant bear, what the hell are you wearing?"

"An anorak," Fraser sounded muffled, and most ticked off. Dewey and Huey cracked up laughing as Fraser slid in. He pulled back his hood, and glared at them. "Not my choice. Unfortunately I've got the beginnings of a cold, and..."

"And your Mom made you wear your big boy coat," Huey grinned.

"My colleagues suggested that I should try to keep warm," he said pointedly.

"Whatever," the Duck brothers were both laughing again.

Fraser shook his head, sniffed, and came as near to a scowl as Ray had ever seen.

"Hey, shut up back there, or I'll kick you out of my car." Ray glared at the comedy double act on the back seat, then turned sympathetically to Fraser. "You'd think it was cub scouts, these guys have been laughing their asses off since they got here."

"Hey, we're sorry," Dewey leaned forward. "Just, you normally look so, uhm... what's the word, Jack?"

"Dapper."

"That's it. And you kind of look like you're wearing your Mom's duvet."

"My mother didn't have duvets. We had quilts."

"Oh Jeez," Huey rubbed his face briskly. "You don't make it easy not to laugh at you, try not to take everything so serious, you know?"

"This is serious," Ray snapped. "Those guys in there are Russian mobsters, and they've got some deal going with this Packer guy. So, can we all just shut up, do what we're supposed to, and get something on them?"

"Yeah, sorry Ray," Dewey sounded genuinely regretful. "So, now that Fraser's here, Jack and I will station ourselves round the back of the hotel, okay? And keep your channel open..."

"Yeah, and remember the codes, okay? We don't want them to overhear and realise we're onto them. And also, the FBI are probably watching this too, so if they turn up, don't take any shit from them. This is our city, and we have a right to police it." Ray closed his eyes, frustrated, listening to himself. He sounded like a... well, like he thought he was Welsh or something, telling everyone what to do. He couldn't help it though... this was Stella.

Luckily nobody seemed to hold it against him. Within moments Dewey and Huey had vacated the back seat, and it was just Fraser and him in the car.

"You okay there, Frase?"

"Uh huh," Fraser sounded snuffled. "Sorry about the cold, I'll try not to sneeze on you."

"Hey, you really do sound bunged up. Must be a killer cold to get you."

"In what way?"

"Well, I mean, you grew up in the snowy tundra or something, I'd have thought you were immune."

"It's a common misapprehension that colds are caused by inclement weather. As a matter of fact, they're more often caused by..."

"Hey, Fraser, I don't need to know."

"Understood." Fraser started unbuttoning his anorak, and pulled out a thermos. "I thought you could probably do with some coffee."

"You, Fraser, are a star," Ray gratefully grabbed the insulated tin mug, and let Fraser fill it with coffee... proper, black coffee, and yes, when he tasted it, sweet as Candy Mountain. "Thanks." His sigh was practically a groan of gratitude. He'd needed that. "And, thanks, you know, for coming out."

Fraser looked at him sideways, and grinned, ruefully. "I'm glad to do it. I've been worrying about the case all day."

"You have?" Ray was touched. "You don't have to, she's not your mother-in-law, after all."

"She's not your mother-in-law either."

"Hey... you have a point." Ray laughed. "That's one good thing from the divorce, I'm not related to the harpy any more."

Fraser nodded, then cleared his throat. "She still really gets to you though, doesn't she?"

"Yeah..." Ray sighed, staring at the revolving doors of the hotel. "If she was just some bitch, I could put up with it. But she's not just some bitch. She's the bitch who made Stella miserable her whole childhood, and who's still making her miserable now. And it's not like I think it's her fault me and Stella broke up, you know? I know these things happen. So it's not that I'm blaming her for that... but the time Stella and me had together, it was... you know," he shook his head. How could he put this? "It was, precious I suppose, you know, limited time only, young love. And Stella's Mom was... I dunno, she was like a cat, she sprayed all over that, spoiled it. Not completely, but she did make things... just miserable, when they didn't have to be."

There was a long silence, and Ray felt himself cramping up inside. He'd gone and done it again, like an idiot, turned himself inside out. And Fraser was a good guy, but hell, when was Ray ever going to learn? Guys didn't like that kind of honesty. Fraser was one of those strong guys, rigid. He kept everything inside. Perhaps, to Fraser, Ray's self disclosure would be something embarrassing, or even worse, something slightly obscene. As though Ray had exposed himself in public. As the silence stretched Ray felt it more and more keenly, that he should have kept his mouth shut. So, when Fraser finally spoke it drove a shiver down his spine.

"You know, Ray," his voice was very gentle, "just because something failed, it doesn't mean it was a failure."

"What... what do you mean?"

"I mean, you and Stella were married. You were a couple. You were teenage sweethearts, you loved each other, you went dancing in the park. All those things... those things are still real. They're still true, even if they're over."

Ray blinked. Damn. He wasn't going to add tears to his embarrassing behaviour. "And all the bad things," he asked, "what about them? Are they still there?"

Fraser heaved a sigh, like a man who knew all about bad things. "They are if you let them. But, Stella's not her mother, she's not Packer, she's not the divorce. She's part of your past. She's part of your present too, in a different way, and she's helped make you who you are. But most of all, she's just herself. And..." Fraser paused. "I'm sorry, Ray, I don't know what I'm saying. Just that... don't feel bad about having loved her. And don't be a slave to it. Life moves on, and that's a good thing."

Ray swallowed hard. There was a lump in his throat. Trust the Mountie to make him want to cry. He'd done him an injustice... Fraser wasn't as rigid as he pretended.

"Ray, look." The tone of Fraser's voice had changed. Ray sat up, sharply. "I see them." Packer was getting into an unmarked vehicle, with Domnin and Krutov on either side, like body guards.

"Is he going with them voluntarily, do you think," Fraser asked, "or is it more like a, like a..."

For once Ray got to finish Fraser's sentence. "Like a hostage situation. Yeah... Yeah Fraser, I think it is."


	6. Michelin Man

Clarice Hamilton was not used to waiting, and today was no exception. She sat nervously in the decorously appointed waiting room, with her brief case across her lap. It looked more like an elegant living room than the purgatorial adjunct to her lawyer's office. She bit her tongue, and made herself as frosty as she could. She was absolutely not going to lose her temper with this man, although she knew that he was playing power games with her. Since her husband had died people were suddenly far less deferential to her, despite her money. She would have to ignore his bad manners. She needed him, after all. There were other lawyers, of course, but none who understood her finances as well as this man. And besides, she had made her mind up, and was determined to go through with it.

Finally Mr Knuckle (and what an utterly ridiculous name, she thought, as she always did) opened the door to his office, and called her in.

"Mrs Hamilton, I'm so sorry to have kept you waiting. I take it you have made your mind up about our little bit of business?"

"Yes," she said in clipped tones. "I've decided to redraft my will. And I need your assurances that it will be absolutely iron clad. After my..." she found the word hard to say, "after my death I don't want anyone finding a loophole and getting hold of money that I never intended them to have."

"So, have you decided who will be the final beneficiary of your will? Your future husband, or your daughter?"

For a moment a flicker of doubt stirred in Clarice. Perhaps she was making the wrong decision after all... No. She steeled herself. "I would like to make my will out to my daughter. Obviously, I would leave my husband a legacy, but the bulk of the estate is to go to my daughter." A twist of confused pride stirred in her as she concluded, " Assistant State's Attorney, Stella Kowalksi."

…

Hostage situation... crap. Ray called it through to Huey and Dewey, carefully vague as the code required, and slid the car out of parking, following the black Mercedes. Checking his wing mirror he saw the duck brothers were following, at a good long distance behind him. So far so good. They could play switcheroo if they had to, obscure the fact they were in pursuit. So far the mobsters didn't seem to be on to them.

Mind you, how would he know if they were? They were clever bastards after all, used to flying under the radar. His hands were tense on the wheel. He noticed as he lifted his right hand to adjust the rear mirror that his knuckles were white.

"Okay, we'll have to hang back here," he said, "guy up front's been looking back, might be checking us out."

"I see that, Ray."

"Cool. Okay, we turn left, Huey and Dewey carry on." He was reluctant to give up the chase, however briefly, but it was time for another car to take over.

"Do you have any idea where they might be heading?"

"Yeah, the docks. I know, it's a gangster cliché, but they got boats out there. If they've kidnapped Packer, then that's likely where they'll take him."

"And then what?" Fraser sounded like he'd already guessed it. Ray confirmed his suspicion anyway.

"And then, if they don't get what they want from him, they throw him over the side." The words hung brutally in the silence as Fraser considered this. Ray was glad he didn't have to look at his friend. He focussed on driving, taking the circuitous route to the docks. The silence hung heavy though, and needed to be filled. He heard himself talking again, and winced. He should leave it. He was being too harsh. "They usually put the body in a fridge or something, tie it up, you know, real tight. And then it sinks, and as long as the binding holds the victim's down there forever. That water's full of crap. Who knows what's down there, who's down there, really?"

"That's... that's a very undignified death," Fraser replied, sounding distant and discouraged.

"Yeah, well, most deaths are." Jeez, when did I become so cynical, he thought. But it was true, most deaths were miserable. Most people died alone, and in fear... and it wasn't fair. Even for Packer, being murdered and dumped overboard wasn't fair. "I'm sorry, Fraser," he pulled the car up to a discreet stop. "I don't mean to be, you know, bitter. Just... these guys have been getting away with murder forever. I don't like them being this close to Stella. Even her mother... well, nobody deserves that."

A message came crackling over the radio from the duck brothers. "Hey, buddy," Dewey's voice. "We were wondering, do you guys want to come over for a pool party?"

"Yeah... yeah, that sounds great. You already there?"

"Yeah, we're here. When do you reckon you'll get here?"

"We're here, actually, on the other side. Probably see you in a minute."

"Okay, well, hope you brought your swimsuits."

Ray laughed, though he knew he shouldn't. "Well, I can't swim. I'll just have to splash around."

Huey laughed. "That's fine. Glad you're here. Enjoy the barbecue."

The message clicked to an end, and Ray stretched back on his seat. "Okay, we'd better get going." He glanced out crankily at the rain. "Wish I had your coat."

"I thought I looked like a pregnant polar bear."

"Yeah, but a dry one."

The two men exited the car, and began to walk casually along the side of the docks. "So, you know where we're going, Ray?"

"Yeah, yeah... I think so. When I was working this case, well, I got all the paper work, aerial photographs, maps, transcripts about what they did and where, all that crap. If they've taken Packer off for a private interview, it will be along here somewhere. Keep your eyes out for Russian boats." He shrugged his shoulders. "And keep your ears open. Knowing you, you can probably speak Russian."

"Well, admittedly, it's rusty, but..."

"You are kidding me... I was joking! What, you speak Russian?"

"Well, technically I've never had a conversation with an actual Russian, though I did practice with my grandmother of course. I learned it as a child in order to read Pushkin and Chekov, then detoured into Dostoevsky... never cared much for Tolstoy. Unfortunately, however, my grasp of the language is somewhat outdated."

"You mean you talk like a novel?"

"Something like that..."

"Yeah, but what's wrong with that? I mean, you talk like a novel in English."

"Uhm... thank you?"

Ray shook his head, grinning. Trust Fraser to speak Russian. "You're a freak," he said affectionately. Somehow he felt a bit safer with his multi talented friend at his side. Even if he did look like the Michelin man.

…

"I'm telling you, I can get the money." It was an unusual feeling, not one he was used to... panic. Steven licked his cut lip, and tried his best to look formal, and in control of events. Rather difficult, considering that he was beaten, and bound hand and foot to a chair.

"I rather thought," Domnin said, with a strangely benevolent smile, "that the reason you came to us was that you couldn't get the money any other way."

"No... no. I was simply coming to you with an investment opportunity..."

"An opportunity that you have offered to thousands of others, and which you have no intention of honouring." Domnin was the less physically formidable of his captors, a slight man, impeccably dressed, with long slender hands. Somehow that just made his quietness all the more intimidating. "You came to us, because you thought we were foolish enough to fall for that same scheme, even though it is on the point of failure. You wanted to pour our good money after your bad." He pulled out a wooden chair, the twin to the one that Steven was bound to, and sat on it, crossing one leg elegantly over the other, gently tugging the hem of his pants so that the crisp crease sat sharp and straight. "You came to us, because you were desperate, and you thought we were stupid. However, we might be prepared to help you, if certain conditions are met."

"Conditions?" Steven felt hope twisting uncomfortably in the cold pit of panic, but kept it out of his voice. He might be scared, he might be desperate even, but he wasn't going to give these guys the advantage of knowing that he was afraid.

"Yes. Conditions. We thought that, rather than you asking us for money, you should, instead, be investing what you do have in our operations."

"But... but I don't have any money."

"Perhaps not yet. But you will do." Domnin paused again, to pick invisible lint off his cuffs. "When exactly will you be celebrating your nuptials?"

"Ah... we hadn't set a date yet. But soon. We were planning on getting married soon." He had been pushing her for a date, and she had been rather more reluctant than he expected.

"Well, I suggest that you fix a date. Do something romantic. Surprise her. Take her to Vegas perhaps..."

"She can't stand Vegas, she thinks it's tacky."

"Well then, take her on a cruise. A marriage at sea? I'm sure she'll be very touched by your display of spontaneity." He smiled as though at a private joke. "We can arrange that for you, if you're amenable to our suggestions."

"I'm sorry," Steven steeled himself. He refused to be a complete sap. "I don't see how this arrangement benefits me at all."

"It benefits you, in as much as it benefits us. We can make you liquid again, but at a price. You belong to us, we channel our funds through you, you do not ask questions, you do not complain. And..." Domnin dropped his voice, and leant forward, fierce faced. "And you absolutely do not fuck with us. We won't have it. Will we, Krutov?"

"No," the man answered, in more heavily accented English than his friend. "No, we won't have it."

"So," Domnin smiled again, sunnily. "Do we have a deal?"

Steven's throat was full of dust. He swallowed, uncomfortably. His wrists ached, his bladder was full, and he knew he was in trouble. There was no hope for it. He made his face calm, as though he was happy with the situation. "Deal," he said tersely, and smiled.

…

Stella sat at her desk, tapping her fingers along the polished surface. Quarter past three, and Ray wasn't here. A familiar sense of frustration edged with fear was welling up on her, again. How many times had he promised to be there... to meet her at a restaurant, to be home in time for dinner, and he'd not been able to make it. Work. It was always work. And she was sure it was work now. But she couldn't know if he was just delayed, or if something had happened.

Damn, she had thought she would stop feeling like this after the divorce. Sometimes she thought she would never stop feeling for him, till the day she died. She really had married him for life. For better or for worse... and this was so much worse. Even after the divorce. You couldn't just untangle yourself from someone. It was always going to hurt.

If he was on the field, she reasoned, she couldn't ring his cell. He wouldn't be able to answer... worse yet, it might distract him and get him in trouble. On the other hand, she could phone his division, and see what on earth was going on with him now. She checked her watch again. Twenty minutes. Surely she was within her rights to phone?

"Hello, I'd like to speak to Lieutenant Welsh, if I may?"

"Certainly, give me a moment Ms Kowalski." The civilian aide on the other side of the phone was as pleasant and professional as ever, which for some reason wound Stella up. She wanted an excuse to be cross with people. Actually, she wanted an excuse to be cross with Ray, but until she knew if he was safe or not she couldn't even do that. It still hurt her to remember the time that he had been shot, when she had sat at home over a cooling dinner, working herself up into a temper, before the knock on the door. She shut her eyes. She would never forget the knock on the door. She swore to God, she would never marry a police man again.

"Ms Kowalski," Welsh's voice always sounded even gruffer on the phone. "I'm glad you called. There have been some developments in the case you brought to our attention. Do you think you could come over?"

Her heart performed that sickening drop that she associated with elevators, roller coasters, sudden bad news. "Is... is Ray all right?" Even as she asked it she knew that Welsh wouldn't be able to discuss anything to do with her Ray over the phone. He was undercover for another detective, and they had to preserve his identity, to protect this Vecchio character.

"There is nothing for you to worry about," Welsh said, giving as much reassurance as he could, "but we do need to talk."

"I'll be right over."

Damn, she thought again, as she hung up the phone. She would never stop worrying about that man. Not as long as they lived. One thing she could do though, was preserve her distance. If he didn't know how much she hurt, then he might hurt a little less himself. She gathered her belongings together, informed her secretary that she would be gone, and incommunicado, made her way to the underground parking, and on to the precinct. Don't let it be bad news, she thought, don't let him be taking insane risks...

Who was she kidding? This was Ray. Of course he was taking insane risks.

Damn.

…

"That could have gone better," Frannie was standing at the water cooler, aware that she was gossiping, but still so surprised at the sight of Stella Kowalski slapping the door shut in Welsh's face and storming out that she couldn't contain herself. Jill shared her astonishment.

"If she's like that with Welsh," she said, leaning toward Frannie conspiratorially, "can you imagine what she was like to be married to? No wonder Ray's a bit strange."

"Hey, leave Ray alone," Frannie was already regretting her foray into the febrile world of office gossip. She'd been trying to do better recently, but it looked like she'd have to confess to Father Behan yet again. Could she help it if office politics was so juicy? The other woman grinned at her slyly, and lifted her plastic cup to her lips as she teased.

"You have a crush on Ray, do you?"

"No!" Frannie absolutely did not have a crush on the new Ray. Well... Now that she thought of it, maybe she did. There was no reason why not. He was certainly good looking enough, edgy, and funny. Enough of a bad boy to be a tease, and sweet enough that you might want to mother him. If your desires went in that direction. Which they didn't. Or hadn't, until Jill put the thought out there. "No," she declared. "I don't have a crush on him."

"Still hot for the Mountie?"

"Oh," she rolled her eyes, frustrated. "Even if I was, what's the point? It's like he's immune to everyone. In a world of his own half the time."

"Yeah," Jill sighed. "I know the feeling."

"So..." Frannie cleared her throat, and tried to extricate herself from the conversation before she ended up in more of a gossipy tangle. "I need to get back to my paperwork."

Jill sighed. "And I need to get back to mine. All the exciting stuff is happening somewhere else."

Frannie wasn't sure that whatever was going on with Stella Kowalski, Ray and Fraser was exciting. But with Russian mobsters involved she was fairly sure it wasn't safe. "I hope they're okay," she muttered, as she made her way back to her desk.

…

Steven Packer had never been so grateful to feel firm ground under his feet, or to feel rain on his face. For a moment in there he had truly believed he was about to... well, swim with the fishes was probably the best term for it. But again he had dodged a bullet. He tried not to breathe too loud a sigh of relief. He had held it together in there, and was proud of himself. He was the king of cool. Yeah, he could face down anyone.

It dawned on him, suddenly, that he couldn't see a car anywhere. He cleared his throat. "How, if you don't mind my asking, am I to get back to the hotel?"

"You walk," Domnin said, and smiled. "My colleague and I have business of our own to attend to. It's not our concern how you get home."

Steven bit his tongue, and swallowed his resentment, but even so his face was hot with it. "Well, a stroll won't do me any harm," he said. "Until we meet again." He nodded, turned on his heel, and stalked off. He was going to be soaked by the time he'd found a taxi. How dare these men... how dare they...

Behind him Domnin and Krutov shared a smile. Domnin clapped his hand on the back of the taller man. "A job well done," he said, in Russian.

"Yes," his colleague replied. "But we'll keep a close watch on him all the same."

"But of course," Domnin said. "Of course. As the Americans say, keep your friends close, and your enemies closer."

"The Americans say that? I thought it was one of ours."

"Well, we can certainly borrow it." The two men turned, and started walking back to the boat, still talking. They didn't notice the figure following them.

…

"Fraser!" Dammit. He couldn't bring that Mountie anywhere. One minute it was like he'd forgotten he was on a stake out, chatting away to some homeless guy, and giving him his coat... which, granted, the guy looked like he really needed it, the next he was scooting along chasing Russians. "Wait for me, Ray," he'd said, "I'll let you know what they're talking about." Which meant, of course, that now Ray was running along after Fraser, pissed off, wet, and blind in the rain. Fraser always seemed so level headed, you'd expect him to think before he did something stupid... but no. That would un-Canadian, or something... Fraser sometimes just got the devil in him and went off on a completely insane mission. Like chasing Russian mobsters.

Slipping somewhat on the slick concrete Ray managed to catch up with his mentally challenged friend. Seizing him by the arm he pulled him to a halt. "What the hell are you playing at," he hissed. "You don't do things like that..."

"Like what, Ray?" Fraser's voice was so low it was practically muffled by the rain.

"We're just here to observe," Ray carried on in a whisper, "you're not meant to get close to them... what if they catch you?"

"Well, in that case, I suppose I would run, or try to affect an escape, I might consider making a citizen's arrest if the situation arose, or..."

"Fraser, you are officially the craziest man I've ever worked with. We saw them let Packer go, we should be following him."

Fraser knuckled his forehead. "You do have a point... perhaps you could follow him?"

"Don't be stupid, we're partners, I stick with you. So, why are we following them? I mean, now that they've let Packer go away?"

"Because..." Fraser's shoulders slumped, and he looked downcast. "Because, they were talking about Ms Kowalski..."

"You mean Stella?"

"Yes..." he looked away. "I didn't want to concern you, but yes. They were talking about Stella."

"And... what did the homeless guy have to do with it?"

"Thomas?" Fraser blinked, temporarily thrown. "Absolutely nothing. Only, I hadn't seen him for a while. He hasn't been attending the free clinic, and I'm almost certain he hasn't been taking his antibiotics as he should, so when I saw him in the rain I thought..."

"Okay, okay. You're a saint. What did they say about Stella?"

"They seemed to be talking about how they could persuade her to work on their behalf..."

"What?" Ray felt a sickening lurch in his stomach. "You mean, blackmail?"

"Yes, yes... I'm afraid so. It seems that they are after both money and power."

"Shit... shit... okay Fraser, we'll follow them."

Fraser nodded, and they began to move again, hunched up, heads down, grateful for the obscurity granted by the rain.


	7. Interpretation

"Hey, isn't that Packer?"

Tom glanced casually in the rear view mirror, to confirm Jack's impression. "Yeah... looks like it."

"Is it just me, or is he limping?"

"Could be. Hard to tell in the rain..."

"Looks like his meeting didn't go quite to plan."

"Well, not his plan anyway," Tom reached for the radio. "Better check with Ray and Big Red." Jack started chuckling. Tom grinned, knowing that his friend was still amused by the vision of Fraser in a chunky anorak. He thumped Jack on the arm. "Stop that," he said, "if you keep laughing about it the poor guy's gonna get a complex."

"I can't help it, he just looked so damned funny..."

Tom shook his head, and clicked the radio on. "Hey, there... one of the guys just left the party. Is he okay? Hope nobody did anything to upset him."

No response.

"Hey, guys? You there?"

Silence.

"Shit," Jack said, all joking forgotten. "Where the hell have they gone?"

…

By the time Steven arrived at the hotel he was drenched, in a foul temper, and his feet hurt. It had been a long time since he'd had to hail a cab. He was more of a chauffeur and limo kind of guy. Unfortunately, he had underestimated the difficulties face by a man who looked less than respectable when trying to catch a ride. It wasn't until he stood in the on suite bathroom, staring at himself in the mirror that he realised just how disreputable he actually looked. No wonder nobody had stopped for him. To his surprise his right eye was puffed up. He hadn't realised he had been hit so hard... perhaps because he was more keenly aware at the time of the split and bloody lip. He tongued it, tentatively, and winced. Damn. His current appearance did not, exactly, reflect the image he wanted to present to the world. He wondered how Clarice would take it... and what he should say. Perhaps that he had been mugged? He had better make it three muggers, at least. He couldn't afford to appear weak to her. Maybe he should think of something heroic... that he was trying to protect someone? No. More trouble than it was worth... She'd no doubt brag about his heroism, and then facts might arise that proved his distinct lack of this particular quality. Shame, he thought. It would have been fun to play the hero, rather than the victim. Still, he'd have to tell her something.

He had started to run a bath, and was stepping out of his sodden clothes when he heard the door to the suite open.

"Hey, honey, let yourself in," he called. "I'm getting in the tub, if you want to join me."

No response. He raised his eyes to heaven, wearily. That was a bad sign. Perhaps Clarice was too drunk to talk... again. Better check on the old bat, he thought, and wrapped himself in a towel, stepping into the main suite.

"Well, well..." an unfeigned smile, sly and toothy, spread across his face. He hadn't been expecting that.

Stella Kowalski.

…

The little guy... 'Domnin' Ray had called him, was doing all the talking. Fraser sat, pressed up against the wall, listening to the conversation in the next room, with his his knuckles tensed to his temples, focussing as hard as he could on the language, and trying to tune out Ray's muttered requests for clarification. He couldn't help it, the constant questions were grating. Didn't Ray realise how hard this was? He hadn't spoken Russian in...well... forever, and even then only with his Grandmother. And these particular Russians did not sound at all like Pushkin.

"Fraser, what are they saying?" Ray was leaning right into his space, whispering urgently into his ear.

"Ya nye znayoe," Fraser snapped back, under his breath, "ya nye ponemayo..." he trailed off, realising that he was in the wrong language. "I'm sorry," he apologised, "this is difficult, I can't listen in Russian and understand English at the same time. Give me a minute to readjust..."

Ray backed off, resentfully, and Fraser tried to focus his attention on the conversation again. He grimaced. Perhaps an attempt at a running interpretation would be good for him after all... it was a technique that his Grandmother had tried to teach him, amongst others, and it had seemed to work at the time, in various languages. He took a deep breath, and imagined himself back twenty odd years, studying with Martha Fraser. Outside, it was snowing. Inside the little wood burner was warm, releasing the fragrance of apple wood. His Grandfather was sitting smoking his pipe, deep in a book, his Grandmother was reading aloud in Russian, while he was trying to keep up in English.

He could do this.

"He's saying... 'she can be a... gift?'" He shook his head. "'Asset. She will have to please... appease...' sorry, I don't understand that... Ah. 'Either the mother or the daughter will do as we say.'"

"So, they are trying to blackmail them?"

"I think that much is obvious. Uhm... 'We can control Packer through his greed, and we can use his...'" Fraser squeezed his eyes shut, as though he could force out the necessary vocabulary. This was harder than he remembered. Marriage, he thought...No. Domnin rattled on. Droog... wife? He'd forgotten too much... And he had a headache. Besides, they'd got enough. "I think we should go now," he whispered to Ray. "We know for a fact that they're looking to blackmail either Stella or her mother, through Packer. They're going to use the marriage between Packer and Mrs Hamilton as a means to manipulate both women. Well, that seems to be their intention."

"Can you get anything else?"

Fraser looked at Ray levelly. Did his friend honestly think he could do anything? Somewhere between bemusement and amusement at Ray's trust in him he replied, with a slight shrug. "I could perhaps give myself a migraine, but I don't think I can get much more than we've already got."

"Okay, thanks Frase." Ray raised a finger to his lips, redundantly, as though Fraser had forgotten the need for stealth. "Let's go."

Fraser nodded. The two Russians were deeply engrossed in their conversation. "After you," he whispered to Ray. The two men crouched low, and went back the way they came.

…

Stella had been expecting to see her mother, hoping that she could talk some sense into her. Instead, there was Packer, wearing only a towel, looking at her with that odiously smug expression that made her want to throw something. For a moment she was literally nauseated, then it settled. She was in control, after all. She drew herself as tall as she could, grateful that the heels gave her extra height, folded her arms across her chest, and narrowed her lips and gaze. She was so angry she could have smacked him, then and there, but Packer had always been a pervert, and he would probably enjoy it. Besides which, someone else had obviously already smacked him around. She wished it could have been her mother, but knew that it wasn't. Probably his mobster friends. Served him right. She found herself sneering, and for once didn't hide her expression. She let her lip curl. Let the man know that she despised him.

"Well, Stella..." he gave one of his patented smiles, only slightly marred by the swelling of his lip. "Such an unexpected pleasure. Are you here to offer your congratulations on my upcoming nuptials?"

She heard a clicking sound in the back of her throat, as she choked off a laugh. "Congratulations," she said, dryly, "on deceiving a widow for her money. You're quite the man."

"I'm not deceiving anyone," he said, "your mother and I are in love."

At that she really did laugh. "Love!" She shook her head. "The only thing you know about 'love' is how to spell the word."

"Why, Stella," his voice dropped into an execrable gentleness. "I'd almost think you were jealous."

"Jealous?" Her eyebrows arched, surprised that he would be so obvious as to suggest it. Did he think in nothing but clichés? "Of you?"

"Of your mother. You know, you had your chance..."

"Excuse me?"

"I know that things didn't work out with your... well... your bit of rough."

At that she felt her mouth dry with anger, then flood. With cool deliberation she pooled her spittle together, pushed it to the end of her tongue, pursed her lips, and spat. It hit him square on the nose, and he flinched, eyes widening with astonishment that anyone would treat him with such disdain.

"Just so you know," she said, heart hammering in her chest, "you're not worth the dirt beneath Ray Kowalski's feet. And better 'a bit of rough' than a piece of slime. At least he's real, he's an actual man. An actual human being. You're a... I don't know what you are. But I won't let you near my mother, just remember that. So slither back under the rock you crawled from. I'm on to you."

Her voice had come out cold as ice, but she was shaking. She turned quickly, hoping he hadn't noticed, and stalked out of the room, down the corridor, toward the lift. Her hands were cold with sweat, and wanted to clench, to hit something. Calm down, she thought, calm down. What did you expect when you went in there anyway?

She was still shaking when she arrived at her office, told her secretary she wasn't taking any calls, and locked the door. If only it had been her mother in the suite, not Packer. She was used to fights with her mother, knew how to negotiate them, survive them. Even communicate, somehow. But seeing that man... She should have realised it was a possibility, but somehow it hadn't even crossed her mind. And it scared her, scared her witless. Not for herself, but for her mother.

She covered her face with her hands. Packer was going to hurt her mother, it was as obvious as it was inevitable... and yes, maybe her mother wasn't the nicest woman in the world. Maybe she wasn't the best mother. But... hell, she was the only mother she had. And that man, that piece of garbage, was laughing at her mother, using her mother, abusing her mother's trust.

Stella realised she was crying. She remembered a moment, one of very few, when she had felt her mother might actually love her. She'd had whooping cough, and had woken up crying in the night, from some nightmare. She couldn't remember the nightmare any more. But she did remember that it was her mother, rather than Nanny, who was sitting by her bed that night. "Hush, Stella," she'd said, and brushed the sweaty hair from her brow, "it's okay, Mommy's here..."

She couldn't ever remember calling her mother Mommy, though she'd wanted to...

And damn. This nasty man, this vile, disgusting creature...

She wiped her face. Packer was going to hurt her mother. And she couldn't, she just couldn't let it happen. She sucked in a breath, to calm herself down, and opened her purse to pull out a little mirror. Not too bad, she thought, her mascara had run a little. She could fix that.

When she unlocked the door, and started work again, nobody could have told that she'd been crying. She barely remembered herself.

...

"There they are." Tom's relief was palpable, for all of a minute. Then he shook not just his head but his whole body, like a gun dog about to point to prey. "Idiots, they shouldn't have run off like that..."

"No," Jack agreed, "but you've got to get used to crap like this where the Mountie's involved."

Tom was still looking angry. It might take him a while to get over the shock of mistaking a homeless guy, huddled up under a bridge, for Fraser. It wasn't like Jack could blame him... they'd both seen the bundled up figure, and thought for a horrible moment that Fraser had been injured, and Ray, for some reason, had disappeared... captured perhaps, or worse.

Trust the damned Mountie to play good Samaritan in the middle of a stake out. It was like a gift he had... do something completely random and confuse the hell out of everybody.

Ray made it to them first. "Hey guys," he said, "I think we've got what we need, we can report back to Welsh now."

"Yeah," Tom glared at him, "why don't you explain why you ran off without warning, leaving items of clothing behind you like a trail of breadcrumbs?"

"It wasn't items," Jack pointed out, "it was just one coat, and a flask of coffee. You make it sound like they ran off skinny dipping."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Ray had a look of comic bewilderment on his face, and Jack stifled a grin. His response, however, was interrupted by a resounding sneeze.

"Hey, Frase, that's what you get for running around with no coat on," he quipped.

"Sorry," Fraser snuffled, "I've been holding that in for half an hour."

"Well, let's get back to the two seven then."

"One of us should keep an eye on the hotel," Fraser suggested.

"If you guys hadn't vanished off the face of the earth, you'd know the FBI are already on that."

"Oh, greatness," Ray rolled his eyes. "That's all we need."

"Yeah, and they're pretty pissed that we... what was it they said... that we 'muscled in on their investigation.' But it does mean you've no excuse not to see Welsh. Sorry guys."

"All right, all right," Ray didn't sound happy. "We'll be there. And hopefully the FBI won't mess things up too much."

…

Steven felt it move through him, surprisingly hot and fierce. It was an interesting sensation, he thought... anger. Yes, he was angry. Very very angry... he could almost get lost in it... if he could justify losing control. For a moment he considered it, then regretfully let it go. He could put his anger off for a while longer, until he was able to... what was the word... avenge himself. Because if there was one thing he was not going to tolerate, it was a woman like Stella despising him. She'd spat at him! That he could never have imagined. He couldn't figure out why she'd done so, what possible endgame it served. But whatever her plan, whatever her motive, he couldn't allow it to go unpunished.

He leant over the sink, and scrubbed the spittle off his face. For now he would hold his anger back. He would have a time, and place, when he could give way to it. But for now... well, for now he had to figure out how best to fit in with the Russians' demands, and how to squeeze some advantage out of it. Because, no matter what Domnin and Krutov said, he was going to come out of this with an advantage. He wasn't anybody's patsy.

And Stella... well, she'd crossed the wrong man. She'd live to regret her attitude to him. For a moment he felt the heat of anger rise in him again, and he pushed it down, smiling. A pleasure to be indulged in the future, he thought, a promise to himself.

He'd make her pay.

…

Clarice was dizzy, and feeling a little, just a very little, sick. She wished that she had some of those nice white little tablets that Steven's doctor prescribed for her. Not that they'd help, she realised. This wasn't tiredness... she was in fact, quite drunk. Safely on the elevator, out of the sight of the hotel staff, she leant against the wall. Perhaps if she could get the throwing up out of the way tonight she'd feel better in the morning. Sometimes that worked...

Steven didn't like it when she threw up. She'd have to be discreet about it... if he was back, that was. He'd been very busy recently... always busy during the day, not always there at night. She felt a pang. Edward had never been too busy for her, and he'd rarely left her at nights.

Of course, he had been an older man. Younger men... well, they weren't as considerate. Even Steven, even though he made her feel safe and loved, and was so very, very attentive... still, there were times, just for the flicker of a second, when she feared there was something behind his smiles, and embraces. The faintest touch of irritation.

Oh, she was just being paranoid... but she had to be careful.

The lift stopped on her floor, and she carefully, barely wavering, made her way toward her suite. Yes, she was being careful... she had told Steven that, until they were married, she didn't feel it right to conduct the physical side of their relationship at her home... He didn't understand it, and she wasn't about to admit it to him. She didn't want to drive him away, after all, if he was sincere. And when she was with him, she did really feel he was sincere. It was when they were apart that doubt crept in... And the fact remained, she felt uncomfortable entertaining another man at the home that had been her's and Edward's. So this suite, this hotel... this was her being careful. Preserving a distance, if she should need it. And Steven didn't need to understand that. This was for her.

Besides, she shook her head in woozy irritation, she felt uneasy with his increasingly urgent suggestions that they fix a date. Why the rush, she wondered. A little, suspicious, bitter fragment of her insecurity nipped away at the back of her head... 'he's after you for your money, make sure he knows he's not getting much... if he still loves you he's legit. If not... then you'd be a fool to trust him.'

For all that, and it hurt her in the heart, she knew that she might still be a fool. She wanted to trust him, she needed to trust him. But when she asked herself who still loved her, now that Edward was gone, she couldn't feel that it was Steven. Not always. When he was with her, the full heat of his attention beaming down on her... oh yes, then she felt she was loved. But when she analysed it, thought about it... something was missing. Who loved her? The only consistent answer she ever got to that question was Stella. And that, surely, was self delusion. Because, why would Stella love her, after all that had been between them, after everything that had passed?

No. Nobody loved her, not really. Some people simply aren't loveable, she told herself, dryly, not even grieving the fact, and you're one of them. If she could only prove, if she could only be sure that Steven loved her... well, she'd leave him everything.

But when it came down to it, the only person she felt half way sure of was Stella. And Stella hated her.

She fumbled for her key, and made to unlock the door. It was already open, and she stumbled slightly as it swung unexpectedly ajar. She caught herself before she looked too tipsy, and stared at the bed. Steven was there, looking half asleep and delicious. She smiled. Already she was forgetting her doubts. She swung the door shut behind her, kicked off her shoes, and made her way to the bathroom to freshen up. She managed to puke, soundlessly, into the toilet, then, as she flushed, cleaned her teeth. He need never know. She was feeling much better when she climbed into bed beside him.

She closed her eyes, and wriggled up close. He pulled her to him, returning her embrace with a fierce clasp. His fingers dug into her, and she gasped. Finally she surrendered control, and allowed herself to fall, dizzily tumbling into her drunkenness as they started to move together. She fell so far away that she didn't notice the expression on his face as he took her. Not loving at all.

When she finally slept he remained, leaning on his elbow, gazing down at her, with a bitter expression on his face.


	8. Watching the Soaps

The blonde lawyer was pretty damned attractive, Dawson thought, as he watched her lightly descending the steps outside her office. This was a good gig. He chuckled to himself. He was being paid to stake out a beautiful woman and take photos of her. At times working for the FBI could be boring, but some days it wasn't too bad. He grinned over his shoulder at his partner.

"She's been busy today. What do you suppose all the rushing about has been for?"

"Well," Wendell smirked. "Intel is that she visited her mother's hotel... while her mother was out, and Packer was in."

"Oh. Juicy." Dawson gazed back at his target through the high powered camera, still taking pictures. Shame about the weather. He could see her legs, long and shapely, but from her knees up she was swathed in an expensive, but concealing coat. She opened out an umbrella, managing to make the movement look balletic, as though a flower was opening, rather than a metal and fabric contraption. Dawson had given up using umbrellas... they were too prone to turning inside out. She made it look like an artistic discipline. He licked his lips appreciatively. "That Packer's a lucky man," he said.

"What," Wendell sounded bored, making conversation for the sake of something to do, rather than because he was interested in what was being said. "Is he lucky for having the daughter, or the mother?"

Dawson tilted his head, speculatively. "Both, I suppose. The Mom's a MILF isn't she?"

"I suppose. I mean, she's getting on a bit, but I bet she knows a few tricks or too."

Dawson grunted. "Do you think the Mom knows her daughter's doing her boyfriend?"

"Don't know. You can't tell with the rich, can you? It's probably like a soap opera in there."

"Yeah," Dawson checked his camera, and nodded. All was as it should be. "Best thing? She does cops too."

"Who? The MILF or the daughter?"

"The daughter, she was married to one."

"Hey, I might be in with a chance."

"In your dreams," he snorted. "Woman like that wouldn't look twice at the likes of us."

"Hey, you never know, you could be her type. Maybe she might like guys who smell of hamburgers and onion rings."

Dawson ignored that. "Well, she's finished for the day, we'll be making a move soon enough."

Wendell grunted, stretched, and put the car in gear. "It's about time. I could murder a pizza."

"Hey, do you see that? That's him, that's Packer." Dawson barked out a laugh. "Pizza will have to wait."

…

Welsh was trying very hard not to roll his eyes out of his skull. "Constable, I know you're not, technically, my problem. However, when you choose to drag one of my men off on a wild goose chase you become a problem. Do you see where I'm going with this?"

Fraser stood to attention, looking less than his usual pristine self in his civvies, which were dripping rain water onto the floor. Welsh wasn't entirely sure, but it looked almost as though his hair was curling up slightly as it dried from wet. "I'm sorry, Sir," he said, "I had no intention to cause a problem."

"Really? Because you could have caused a serious problem. While I appreciate your dedication to social justice, may I point out that a stake out is not the time for catering to the homeless."

"He was only trying to help," Ray interrupted in defence of his friend. "The guy had no coat."

"And if he'd had no shoes would the Constable now be running around barefoot?" Welsh shook his head. He didn't want to know the answer to that. "Besides which, that's not the real problem, as I'm sure you both know. What," he leaned over his desk, glaring at both men, "what the hell were you thinking, chasing Russian mobsters all over the docks for?" Ray and Fraser had the decency to look chastened, and say nothing, recognising a rhetorical question when they heard one. "Did I not tell you, Vecchio, not to do a knight in shining armour act?"

"Yes, Sir, yes, you did tell me that."

"So, what possessed you to run onto the Russians' damned yacht? You do realise that a boat is an enclosed space, don't you? You do realise that boats can move, don't you? That you could have ended up trying to swim back to shore with weights around your ankles?"

"Yes, Sir, yes, I do realise that..."

"To be fair to Ray, Sir," Fraser interjected, "it was entirely my fault that we were on the yacht."

"I can't say that I am in the least bit surprised," Welsh said, again resisting the urge to roll his eyes. "Did you see a small fur bearing animal that needed to be rescued?"

"No, Sir, but they were discussing means by which they might use blackmail against Ms Kowalksi and..."

"Great." Dammit, the Attorney's office was involved again. Welsh kneaded his temples with his fingertips. This was going to be a complete headache, in more ways than one. "And no doubt Ray here heard it and ran off half cocked..."

"No, Sir," Fraser crinkled his brow. "No, Sir, I'm sorry... Ray doesn't speak Russian..."

"Ah, I see." For some reason Welsh found himself annoyed by the fact that the Mountie's skill set included Russian of all things. "So, you listened in on this Russian conversation, and decided to follow two blackmailers onto a private yacht, risking capture or worse?"

"Uhm, essentially... yes, Sir. That's what happened."

Welsh leaned back on his chair, and favoured Fraser with a long, and deeply ironic gaze. Finally he released him from the spotlight. "Well, all I can say is I'm glad you're the Canadian Consulate's problem, not mine. If you were on my team, I'd have had a nervous breakdown by now. God knows how Thatcher keeps sane."

The Mountie continued to stand, dripping soddenly. Welsh shook his head. "You can go," he said. The two men made their escape, Ray placing his hand on Fraser's back and practically pushing him out the door.

Dammit, Welsh thought, he had no idea how he ever got any work done. Seemed he'd missed his calling... he should have been a teacher. All he ever did some days was tell people off.

Rubbing the knuckles of his left hand against his tired head he pulled a sheaf of paper toward him and dug back into admin. It might be boring, but at least there things made sense.

…

Ray was scowling at his phone, and splashing deliberately into puddles on the way to the car. Stella wasn't picking up.

"I'm very sorry," the secretary said, "but she's been busy all day... I'm sure if you leave a message she'll get back to you."

"Just, is she all right? I mean, nothing's happened?"

He could hear the resignation on the other side of the phone. The secretary was probably used to Ray phoning up somewhat pleadingly, and misunderstood his current concern as mere ex husband crap. At least she answered the question.

"She's absolutely fine, really, there's nothing to worry about."

"Thanks," Ray snapped the cell phone shut before he could make himself look even more like an idiot. At least the secretary had been reassuring.

Fraser sneezed, for perhaps the fifth time since they'd returned from the docks. "Jeeze, Fraser, get something for that, why don't you?"

"There's nothing for it," he muttered into one of his astonishingly white handkerchiefs. "I'll just have to sweat it out."

"Well, try not to sneeze all over me," he lifted a shoulder in a shrug. "I mean, I love you, but I don't want your cooties."

Fraser nodded, and opened his mouth, presumably about to say something very literal. Ray clapped him on the shoulder, in a gesture of affection that was also intended to move him along and shut him up. "Get in the car, before you drown, okay?" As they slid into their seats he looked at Fraser sideways, and grinned. "Can't believe you gave that coat away. Turnbull will kill you."

"I sincerely doubt that, Ray..."

"Look, whatever... Hey, I was going to say, if you've got a cold, you shouldn't be sleeping on your floor. Come round to mine, I'll make, I dunno, soup or something. I owe you for cooking for me and Stella."

"We'll have to pick up Dief from the Vecchios."

"Yeah, greatness. See if we can't snag some leftovers."

"If Dief hasn't eaten them all..."

…

Clarice was shaking, and it wasn't the 'just got out of bed' shakes from lack of booze. Steven had... Steven had...

No. She shut her eyes. She'd misunderstood, surely.

He had shouted at her. He had thrown the vase. He had stormed out of their suite. He had... he had been angry. Hateful. He looked at her as though he hated her.

It was her fault, of course. She hadn't realised last night that he'd been injured, and when she saw him this morning... She blushed, angry at herself. She'd babied him, literally. "Oh, poor baby," she'd murmured when he explained the bruises, then compounded her idiocy by giggling when his face went into a pout. "Let me kiss your bobo better."

Well, of course he was going to be offended by that. What man wouldn't be? He even said it to her, "I'm not your pet. I'm your fiancé." For a moment she had hovered on the verge of more gentle teasing, then his irritation got through to her brain. To be fair, she was still feeling blurry round the edges. The morning pills hadn't kicked in.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart... did you tell the police?"

"What would be the point? They'll never catch them."

She'd snuggled up, and hidden her head in the crook of his shoulder. Then she'd been an idiot, and said it again... not as a joke, as genuine condolence, which just popped out before she could think. She meant it well, but it was still the wrong thing to say. "Poor baby."

"Fucking hell," he'd yelled, face reddening and eyes bulging. He pushed himself up and out of her embrace, off the bed, and into an angry march to the on suite, slamming the door so hard that the pictures shook on the wall. "I'm not a baby!"

That was when she started to be afraid. She'd never heard him shout before, let alone swear.

"Steven?" Her voice had gone very little, and she pulled herself up into a huddle on the bed, dragging the sheets around her protectively. "Are you... are you okay?"

There was a long silence, then he stepped back through. It was as though a completely different man had entered into the room. He smiled at her, radiated sympathy, warmth.

"I'm sorry, honey," he said. "I didn't mean to take it out on you..."

She gazed at him, with a strange sensation... as though she was a fly trapped in amber, the atmosphere coalescing around her, hardening to a point in which she would be incapable of escape. He sat on the bed next to her, pulled her alongside him, and started to play with her hair. She shut her eyes. Normally she liked that...

"Sweetheart," he said, "I'm sorry."

"That's all right," she lied, while the memory of the man before Edward began to crawl out of it's deep dark hole. She could really pick them, couldn't she? Steven looked like an angel, but so had... so had he. She began to cry.

"What's wrong?" Steven put a finger under her chin, and tipped her head up. "What's wrong with my angel?"

"I don't... I don't know." She must be misunderstanding this, she must. There was no way Steven would be like that other man (she couldn't even bring herself to name him.) So why... why did he have to shout like that?

"Hey," he whispered, cuddling her close. "I know what's wrong. What will make us feel better."

"What?" She gazed at him hopefully, as though he might have an answer for everything now aching in her.

"We need to set a date."

She froze, didn't say anything. He gave her a moment, then sighed. "We're stressed and unhappy, because we know we're meant to be together, we need to be together... what do you say? I want to be able to introduce you to people, to say, 'this is my wife, Clarice Packer.'"

Clarice smiled, despite herself. Of course, she preferred Hamilton, it sounded far grander than Packer. Or Kowalski for that matter. Clarice could never understand why Stella had taken that Pollack's name. But still... to be introduced, again, as someone's wife. To be able to attend a party on a handsome man's arm... that would be something. She would be something, again.

Steven caught her smile, and returned it. "What do you say? Shall we set a date?"

"It would have to be at least three weeks, for the banns..."

"Why wait that long?" He laughed in her ear, flirtatiously, "Why not be spontaneous? We could go on a cruise...why not? We could just run away, the two of us together. We could be married tonight..."

Oh, what a lovely thought... For a moment she hung onto it, like a child clinging on to the hope of Father Christmas in the face of all evidence. If only she could be as happy as she had been when she woke up this morning, tumbled in his arms.

But no, it had been spoiled. He had shouted, he had... he had snarled. And it wasn't just a spat, she wasn't over reacting. It had been as though, for a moment, his face had been stripped away, revealing... something. Bone deep, and unpleasant, and unclean. And whatever it was that had shouted at her, whatever it was that had snarled... it was still there. The something nasty. Behind her beautiful boy and his beautiful golden mask.

She shut her eyes, and felt tears oozing out between her lids. She hadn't misunderstood. Or rather, she had only just started understanding. Oh, she was an old fool. The man had just been using her all along.

She felt his thumb tracing along her cheek, following her tear. She knew that if she opened her eyes he would be gazing at her with love. She couldn't bring herself to move, couldn't think of anything to say, anything to do. If she could hang on to this one moment, corrupted as it was, for just a little longer...

"So, what do you say, Princess," he used his affectionate term for her, and her heart went cold. He must mock her with that title. She wasn't a little girl in pink, she was growing old, for God's sake. No wonder he had looked at her with such... such hatred and contempt.

She kept her eyes closed, and clenched her fists, took a deep breath. She would give him one chance. One last chance. If she was wrong, he still had a chance to redeem himself.

"Steven, I will marry you... on one condition."

"Anything," he murmured into her ear.

"I am tying up the bulk of my money, putting it into a trust fund. I'm not... I'm not good with money. I need to make sure I don't spend it all..."

"That's all right, darling, I can look after it for you."

"I'm leaving everything to Stella. We'll have an annual stipend... generous, really, and the house, of course, various properties. You'll be well catered for after... after I'm gone. But I want Stella to inherit everything."

There was a long silence, and she kept her eyes shut, hoping. All he had to do was say that he understood. All he had to do was say the money didn't matter...

Why was he being so quiet?

Nervously, she opened her eyes.

There it was again. The face behind his face. Radiating contempt. Her whole body cringed away from him, and he sat up, stood, turned his back and walked to the bathroom.

He didn't say a damned word.

"Steven?"

She sat tense and silent, listening while he washed, watched him as he stepped back through, fresh from his ablutions, watched him dress, watched him tidy his tie, smooth down his jacket.

Finally he walked to the bed, and stood staring down at her. His face had gone pebble hard and blank. "Bitch."

"Wha... excuse me?"

He leant over her, one arm on either side of her body, pinioning her with his gaze. "I didn't think you were this stupid. What, I thought we had an understanding? You expect me to believe you were only marrying me for love?"

"What... what else would I marry for?"

"I earned that damned money," he shouted. "What the hell do you think this has been about? I thought you understood."

She pushed herself even further back, and pressed hard against the head of the bed. He leaned further in, pushed his face right up to hers. She cringed and tried to turn away, and he put his mouth up to her ear. "What do you think someone like me would marry someone like you for? It was just a transaction, a fair exchange. You get me, I get money. That was the deal. And now you decide to break it, for what... Stella?"

"She's my daughter..."

"I would have been your husband!" He shouted, and she screamed, throwing her arms up over her head. The weight on the mattress shifted abruptly as he stood, and she stayed huddled, still quaking. "I would have been your husband," he repeated bitterly, "but you broke your end of the bargain."

"But I... I loved you." She heard the words as they left her throat, and hated them for making her sound so damned needy.

He laughed then, with absolutely no humour in it, and there was a crash. She was tense beyond flinching, and didn't even move. After a while the door slammed. Finally she opened her eyes.

The vase lay shattered across the floor. Her favourites, peonies and roses, lay scattered amongst fragments of crystal.

Finally she stopped crying, and dabbed her face with the bed sheet. She was not going to look in the mirror. She knew what she must look like. She could save that particular confrontation with reality for later. Now... now she needed a drink.

She phoned room service, requested a cleaner, and told them that Mr Packer was no longer to be admitted to her room, to warn her if he was on the way up. Then she ordered some bottles. Champagne, she thought, would be too acidic. Although it was her favourite, sometimes she could feel it eating it's sharp way through her stomach lining. No, she thought, red. Something with body. Something warm and full, to blunt the edges.

She finally got to her feet, made her way to the bathroom, began to clean and make herself up. She didn't know what she was going to do today, but one thing she knew for sure. She wasn't going to think about anything at all.

...

Stella was in a foul mood. Her car was still in the shop, she couldn't catch a cab, and the weather was affecting her cellphone's reception. Damned technology, she thought. If they didn't sort out the kinks these things would never catch on. They'd been around since the late eighties, still cost a bomb, looked like a brick, and didn't work when you needed them to. She was glaring at her cell and persisting in her attempt to get through to the Twenty Seventh Precinct when a voice cut in.

"May I have this dance?"

She froze at the voice for a minute, feeling herself chill and sicken. What a piece of... She snapped her phone shut, dropping it into her purse, then turned, willing her face into submission. Impassively she gazed at him. "What do you want, Packer?"

"Steven," he said, smilingly, "it always used to be Steven."

She turned with a huff, and started walking away, positioning her umbrella as a shield between them. Easily, indolently, he lengthened his stride and matched her steps.

"What happened to us, Stell?"

He didn't get to call her Stell. She bit her tongue so hard it bled. The little taste of metal in her mouth distracted her, helped her distance herself enough from her anger that she could at least control it.

"There never was an us, and you know it."

"Oh, Stella, it was always you and me. For me, at least. I never thought of anyone else. Even when I was with your mother... I only went with her because she reminds me of you."

She released a choke of a laugh, and let it fly, brittle, into the chilly air. "You take all women for fools, don't you? That schmaltzy shit might have worked on my mother, but it doesn't work on me."

"Stella," he said, with every appearance of earnest passion, "it's not schmaltz. It's real." He grabbed her upper arm, and she flinched, pulled herself away. Her umbrella turned inside out, and she shook it, frustrated, dropped it to the pavement. Damn. She turned to him, fists on her hips. For a moment she was aware that she was 'doing a Ray,' squaring up to an opponent, with every intention of kicking them in the head if they didn't back the hell off. She tilted her jaw, squared it, and a Kowalski smile spread across her features. Damned straight she was doing a Ray. Someone needed to.

"If you touch me again," she said, still with the Kowalski grin, "I will file a suit. Don't think I won't get you restrained. And by the time I'm done I'll make sure my mother knows all about you. You won't be allowed within a mile of either one of us."

Something shifted behind his eyes, and the loving expression he had been affecting dropped away as though it had never been there. He gave her a slow, calculating look.

"It's that way, is it?"

"Yes. It's that way. And you'd better not forget it."

He nodded, raising an eyebrow in cool assessment of the situation. "All right then," he finally said. "Now I know. Good day to you, Ms Kowalski." He turned, and walked away. Stella stood, fists still clenched to her sides, with a physical tremor shuddering through her. She wanted to pace, to shake something, to break something...

Perhaps this was how Ray felt, she thought, with his constant fidgeting. Too full of energy, and passion, no outlet for it. From the outside it drove her mad, his buzzing, fizzing vigour. If it was anything like this it must drive him up the wall.

She closed her eyes, ignoring the rain, and breathed. Finally she stooped, picked up the umbrella, which sagged like a broken spider, and shaking it out continued on her way.

…

"Lover's spat," Wendell said, "maybe the MILF found out about them?"

"Who knows? This is better than the soaps." Dawson sat back appreciatively watching the show.

"Yeah, whatever... hey, looks like she sent him packing."

"Sent Packer packing. You're a funny guy, Wendell."

"You sure those two are seeing each other? I mean, that's not the look of love she has on her face, is it?"

"You know women. With those two, I guess it's a love hate relationship."

"Sure it's not a hate hate relationship? I mean seriously, have you seen the look she's giving him? She could curdle milk."

"Oh that's it, it's all over folks. Love's young dream just died."

"Looks like it." Packer was striding off, looking furious.

"He broke her bumbershoot." Dawson laughed. He knew it was petty, but it was pretty funny to see the polished professional woman struggling like anyone else with the skeleton of her umbrella.

"Her... her what did you say?"

"Bumbershoot."

"She's not British you know."

"She might as well be. Her old man was."

"What's that got to do with... hang on. He's back."

"Ah, I love the soaps. You never know what's going to happen next, do you?"

"There they go, arm in arm. Lovely..."

"Huh. Off for angry make-up sex. Wish I could be a fly on the wall for that."

"Well, sadly, they're out of range now. We'll have to let other, and better placed operatives than us enjoy the peep show."

"Yeah... other guys get all the fun."

"We can still get pizza."

"With pineapple on top."

"If you insist..."

…

Her breathing was just becoming steady again when she felt, rather than heard him at her back.

"If you don't go away right now, and stay away, I will have you arrested for harassment."

"Oh, Stella, you won't do anything of the sort."

She turned, mouth opening in a retort, then saw the satisfied expression on his face, and the way he was carrying his right hand hidden in the pocket of his long coat.

"Yes, Stella, that is a gun in my pocket, and yes, I am glad to see you. See, the thing is, I wondered, shall I let the Russians have all the fun? I thought, maybe I could just let them come and get you, but really... I saw you first. So, you're coming with me."

Despite the weapon, and the look in his eyes she felt herself stiffening with resistance. "I have no intention of coming with you..."

"You come with me, or it's your mother in the firing line." The complacent, self congratulatory look on his face chilled her, but it was the thought of her mother, rather than the gun, that persuaded he she had no choice.

"Good girl," he said, and stepped up close to her, looped his left arm through her right, shifting so that the gun was still pointing in her general direction. He put his mouth close to her ear, in an approximation of affection. "Come along Stella," he murmured, "we've a lot of catching up to do."


	9. Whispers with Wolves

Ma Vecchio was more than delighted to provide dinner, and despite their protestations (which were not, after all, sincere) plied them with second helpings of the main course, and lashings of pudding. Unfortunately she realised that Fraser had a cold, rather more easily than he had anticipated, and started to fuss over him in a manner that he had only previously witnessed applied to her son. Fraser had become accustomed to be eating with this large and voluble family, but was still getting used to the fact that Ray Vecchio was not there. It always felt as though he was just about to walk through the door. He wondered what his friend would make of the remodelling that had taken place after the fire. He smiled wistfully as Ma Vecchio urged a second portion of panacota raspberry on him. She had always had a very generous nature, but he wondered if sometimes she mothered him and Ray Kowalski so ferociously because she missed her son. He pushed back his chair, and raised his hands in defeat.

"Thank you so much, Sophia, I truly could not eat another bite."

"Are you sure? You don't eat enough. You're always running around, and Ray here," she glanced at Ray affectionately, "he's so skinny. What do you eat?"

Fraser thought of Ray's depleted kitchen and kept his answer to himself. Mrs Vecchio would not react well to the information that Ray lived on coffee, chocolate and take out. It was as much a mystery to Fraser as it was to Ma that his friend could stay as skinny as he was.

Ray grinned, and following Fraser's lead stood, leaned over the table, and gave Mrs Vecchio a peck which landed on her ear. "I eat fine, Ma, but never as fine as here."

"Oh, sweet boy," she said, and patted him on the cheek. "Don't be so long next time."

"I'll try."

"Come on Dief," Fraser looked down at his wolf, who was lying, replete, under the table, with his head on his forepaws. Dief looked up at him and whined. Fraser folded his arms and gave him a disappointed look. "Or, if you would rather stay here..." To his relief Dief rose, with a grumbling noise, and snuffled out, then leaned, apologetically up against his leg. Fraser smiled, bent down slightly and tousled his ear. "Ingrate."

"Sophia?" Ray looked at Fraser puzzled after they had finally made their exit.

"It is her name," Fraser replied. "She doesn't like being called Mrs Vecchio, tells me that it makes her feel like her grandmother."

"Yeah, but she likes to be called Ma. I know she's told you that a few times."

"Ah," Fraser cleared his throat uncomfortably. "But you see, much as I love her, she's not my Ma."

"She's not mine either. It's like an hono, honna... honnur..."

"Honorary title?"

"Yeah, that."

"I am sure that it is, but..." Fraser looked away. He couldn't quite find the words for this, wasn't even at all certain that he knew what he was feeling. Well. He'd say it anyway. "I didn't have my mother long."

"Oh... sorry."

"Don't apologise. It was a long time ago."

Ray looked uncomfortable, and they walked in silence for a while. Then, abruptly, he laughed and grinned, nudging Fraser hard in the ribs. "Hey, you spoil that wolf, don't think I don't notice. Ingrate this and whatever that, but I see you sneaking him treats."

"My treats are healthful," Fraser grasped the change of subject gratefully. "Your treats are donuts and..."

Dief yipped. Ray looked down at him. "You know, I'm sure that wolf aint deaf..."

"It was a coincidence, Ray."

"Oh, yeah... co inky dink." He drawled the word out, rolled his eyes. "Watch this... Hey, Dief, chocolate éclair!"

Dief turned his head and looked up at him hopefully, and Ray laughed. "See? He's been pulling a fast one all these years."

"Perhaps he just has a spiritual connection with you, Ray."

"Spiritual connection with pastries more like..."

The rain had stopped, but the streets were still slick, street lights reflecting off the side walk as they the car. Dief would leave muddy footprints all over the Consulate if they weren't careful, Fraser thought. As if Turnbull hadn't already had enough mopping to do. Really, it was quite an insulting duty for a Mountie. Perhaps someone should say something to Inspector Thatcher... No. On second thoughts, they had enough to worry about without him getting into an argument with Thatcher.

"Do you want to try and get hold of Stella again," Fraser asked, as they took their respective places in Ray's pool car. "It's been a while, I'm sure she'll want to discuss recent developments."

Ray pulled a face and started the engine. "Not with me," he said, with a melancholy expression. "I think I probably came on a bit too... what's the word, like I wanted to be a knight in shining armour."

Fraser sympathised. "Gallant," he suggested, "chivalrous?"

"What, like Sir whatchumacallit in King Arthur?"

"Basically, yes. It's a natural instinct, when you love someone."

"I think that's the problem, Frase." Ray seemed to be keeping his eyes fixed on the road rather more intently than usual. His mouth was a tight line, and it struck Fraser that his comment might have been somewhat over familiar. He turned his head, and looked casually out of the window as he allowed his friend to speak. "See, she's fallen out of love with me, so it must, you know, just piss her off that I'm... like this."

"Like what?"

"Like I'm still a teenager, and she's still my lavender queen."

Fraser flicked his eyes toward Ray, then back again. Oh dear, he thought, the children's nursery rhyme going through his head. Poor Ray. He wondered, for a moment, if he should tell Ray that he suspected Stella might still love him. No, it wouldn't be fair, to either one of them. If Stella didn't want to tell Ray the truth, then it wasn't his place to tell it for her, and besides... it was sadly obvious that their marriage had failed, despite their feelings for each other. They were just too different, when all things were taken into account. Fraser knuckled his brow, sighed, and said nothing.

After a few moments Ray spoke up again.

"You know, you're probably right. I think we should check in with Stella... but... do you mind going up first? You know, so she doesn't think I'm coming on strong, or stalking her, or any of that, you know, shit."

"Certainly Ray, if you think it will help."

"Well, it will be better than me barrelling to her door looking like a moonstruck cow."

Fraser made a puzzled frown. Moonstruck cow? What did that have to do with anything? Sometimes his partner came out with the strangest comments...

…

Stella maintained her calm as best she could, under the circumstances. Packer might have the upper hand, but she was absolutely not about to give him any satisfaction. She was absolutely not about to look afraid. If anything... she allowed her face to settle into a look of bored distaste.

He walked around the chair he had bound her to, and glared.

"You know I'm in control here, don't you?"

"Yes, yes. You're a man with a gun," she replied. "I'm sure it makes you very important."

He smacked her, back handed, and her head snapped to the side. He had already hit her, with the barrel of the shot gun, when they arrived. If she hadn't been so dazed she would have put up more of a fight when he tied her to the chair. As much as anything, she was thrown off her game by the shock of him using violence. She actually hadn't been expecting that. He'd always been an odious creature, but he'd always seemed afraid of physical confrontation. Of course, right now, he must feel that he had nothing to fear from a woman bound to a chair. She laughed. "Ha." He flinched. Presumably he hadn't been expecting that as a response. She turned her head toward him, affecting what Ray had called, in arguments, her 'queen of the ice face', and touched her tongue to her inside lip. It was bleeding, and she suddenly clocked the fact that his lip, also, was cut, and swollen, that he had a black eye. Glancing at the hand, still raised, she saw a bald patch on the hair of his wrists. She smiled up at him. He also had been bound, and beaten.

"Does hitting me make up for the fact that they hit you?"

His face went white, but instead of hitting her again, he stepped back. "Who have you been talking to?"

She said nothing. Perhaps she had just created a slight advantage. She didn't know what it meant, and she didn't know how to use it, but she had just made him uncomfortable. She cleared her throat, and tapped her foot on the metal deck. "You don't expect me to answer that, do you?"

He leaned forward, and glared in her face. "You take one step out of line, and you'll regret it."

"I think we're both agreed that I won't be taking any steps like this," she smiled at him, bored, and yawned. She might be his prisoner, but she wasn't going to be his victim. She knew him well enough to know how much he loved being in control. When they were at school he had always jockeyed to be top boy, the one the girls all ran after. The boys hadn't liked him so much, but the girls were all over him. Perhaps that was the real reason he chased her all those years. Because she ignored him. Well, that, and her mother's money of course.

Poor Mother, she thought, falling for this creature.

He was still pacing the deck, glaring at her. Finally he burst out. "You're supposed to be afraid."

She raised her eyebrows in an affectation of surprise. "Oh, is that how one is supposed to react in these circumstances? I do beg your pardon. I will try harder, in future, to appear impressed."

He stepped toward her again, this time with a fist. She looked at him with an amused contempt, and he stopped, took a step back. "You know," he said, coldly, "you might not be frightened now, but you will be when I hand you over to my friends."

"Ah yes," she said, "your friends. The Russian mob. I take it they are responsible for your bruises?"

"You have been talking," he said, and turned on his heel. He cursed. "I can't believe they talked to you..."

"Well, everybody needs a good lawyer."

"Fucking bitch," he said, and stamped out of the room, slamming the metal door with a clang.

Once he was out of the room Stella sagged, allowing the fear to flood her for a moment. Only for a moment. She twisted her wrists and started working on her bonds. She encouraged herself with the thought of her ex mother in law, Ray's mother, still a friend. A much stronger woman than her own mother. Poor as dirt for much of Ray's childhood, but always made ends meet. The kind of woman who, when her handbag was snatched, snatched it back and beat the would be mugger over the head with it. Stella remembered that day in the department store, and laughed. The mugger hadn't laughed. He'd even been grateful when the store detective came to arrest him. "Ha," she laughed to herself, still straining against the rope, "Momma Kowalski." Stella could just imagine how she would react to this kind of thing. She was only a Kowalski by marriage, of course, but when Stella thought of her ex mother in law she could always see where Ray got his 'kick 'em in the head' attitude from. She grinned. Well, she wasn't even a Kowalski by marriage any more, but she'd learned a thing or two from them.

When the ropes at her wrists broke she leant forward, calmly, and started on the ropes at her feet which gave way easily. The door, however, proved to be locked from the outside. Never mind. When Packer came back in, she was going to beat him with his handbag... well, more accurately she was going to beat him with his chair. Again she laughed out loud. She realised this jagged high was adrenaline keeping her sharp and focussed, and that when it was all over she would probably collapse. But for now, Ray would be proud of her. "Kick 'em in the head," she quoted, and took up her stance by the door.

…

The supervisor at Stella's building waved them through, recognising Ray, and returned to his crossword. It was the 'ten minute quicky', and had so far taken him an hour and a half.

Hang on, was that a... He looked toward the departing backs of the two men, and blinked. Between them was ambling a creature that looked very much like a ….

Nah. People didn't have wolf for pets. He was just getting old...

…

As discussed, Fraser knocked on the door first. "Ms Kowalski," he called through the wood, "it's Constable Fraser here." No response. "Constable Benton Fraser..." Still no response. "Ray's partner..."

"Hey Fraser, she knows who you are." Ray was standing behind him, shifting from foot to foot. "She just doesn't want to answer."

Dief started whining, and scrabbling against the door.

"Shit, don't do that Dief, you'll scratch it all up, and Stella will kill me..."

"I very much doubt that Stella would develop homicidal inclinations simply because her door was scratched..." Fraser allowed himself to ramble, in an effort to distract Ray. He had a curious feeling that something was amiss, but couldn't quite place what was causing it. He scratched his neck. Ray was grumbling behind his back, and he let the words float over his head as he put his face up close to the door.

"Please tell me you're not gonna lick that?"

"Why would I lick that," Fraser said vaguely, with one eye closed, peering through the gap between door and frame.

"Why do you lick anything? I dunno."

Fraser stood back, unhappily. "Ray," he said, "I don't think that Stella is in."

"What? This time of the evening on a week night? 'Course she's in. She's probably microwaved a ready meal, and has the music on too loud..."

"Do you hear music?"

Ray froze, then shook his head. "Stupid, I'm stupid..."

"Why would you say that, Ray?"

"I shoulda seen that... hey, is that what you were looking at? There's no light on in there, is that it?"

"Yes, Ray. There's no light on, I hear no movement, no appliances, and, as you say, there is no music."

"We should let ourselves in and just check..."

"Let me go down and get the super."

"Nah, no need. I've got the key..."

Fraser looked uncomfortable. "Are you sure you should do that? Might it not be considered breaking and entering, given that she's your ex wife?"

Ray looked at him, puzzled. "What do you think, I'm a snoop who copied her key? She gave me one, for if there was an emergency. She has mine as well."

"Oh." Fraser felt somewhat ashamed of himself. "I'm sorry, I didn't realise..."

"Yeah, she's still down as my next of kin."

Ray Vecchio was still down as Fraser's next of kin. He wondered who had the lonelier existence, this particular Ray, with the strangest undercover job in Northern America, whose nearest and dearest in Chicago appeared to be his ex wife, or himself, with absolutely no family left at all. He shook his head and took the key. "I should go in first," he said... then added quickly "just in case she is in. You said I should go first." Ray looked reluctant, but stepped back. Fraser turned, relieved, to the door. He hadn't mentioned it to Ray, but he did think there was a slight chance that something ugly might have happened. If so, he wanted to brace his friend for it.

The door swung open easily, and he reached out with his left hand to turn on the lights. A sigh of relief escaped him, and he stepped in, and to one side. "The apartment is empty," he said. "She's not here."

Ray stood in the middle of the room, scratching his head. "Maybe she's in the bedroom?" He stepped forward, and started opening doors.

Huh, Fraser thought, he's right. Why am I so sure this apartment is empty?

Dief was standing by his side, head up, alert, nostrils trembling...

"Oh, it's like that..."

"What?" Ray turned, and looked at Fraser urgently. "What do you mean it's like that?"

"Uhm..." Fraser tugged his ear uncomfortably. He wasn't quite sure how to explain this. It wasn't something that happened very often, but when it did... He tried to remember how he'd explained it to the 'real' Ray Vecchio, then realised that he never had. The man simply seemed to discover it himself, and accept it as one of Fraser's quirks. Well, perhaps he should just be very matter of fact about the whole thing, act as though it was normal.

"Dief informs me that Stella has been here, with a man, and he forced her to leave with him."

"What?" Ray gawked at him for a moment, then stepped forward, pointing with his index finger. "If you're having some kind of a mental meltdown, I'm gonna kill you."

"Why would I be having a 'mental meltdown'?"

"You're talking to your dog!"

"Dief is not a dog, Ray. He is, as you well know, a wolf. And I wasn't talking to him. He was talking to me."

Ray poked Fraser in the chest with his pointed finger, hard. "If you're taking the piss, or just whacked in the head, I will... and I mean it, I will kill you. I won't want to, but I will."

"Yes, I understand."

"Okay. Did Dief tell you where he took her?"

Fraser looked at Dief and raised his eyebrows. Dief looked back up at him and whined.

"I'm not sure," he said, "but I imagine Dief will be able to sniff him out."

"I cannot believe I'm doing this," Ray muttered, as they turned and started following Dief along the corridor. Dief's tail was in the air, his nose to the ground, and he was making urgent snuffling noises. "Seriously, how is this my life? She's probably staying at a friends... telling them what a screw up I am."

"Don't be down on yourself, you're not a screw up."

"Says 'Whispers with Wolves,'" Ray's voice was getting snippier as they went along. He repeated himself. "I cannot believe I'm doing this..."

Fraser realised that Ray kept talking because he was so unnerved by the whole situation, and wished he could say something to reassure his friend. Nothing sprang to mind. He tried to imagine the conversation. 'You know, Ray, there are more things in heaven and earth... for example, I have frequent conversations with my dead father...' That would not go down well. Neither would, 'do you realise that the closet in my office is bigger on the inside than it is on the outside, and that it's always winter in there, but occasionally Christmas...'

Oh dear. Now he was blithering, if, mercifully, only to himself.

"You realise Dief's just led us to the car park? How's that gonna help us? He can't track a car, can he?"

"He has been known to do so," Fraser pointed out as he crouched down by an empty car space. "If you reacquaint yourself with case number..." he trailed off suddenly, and dipped his finger onto the concrete, raised it to his lips and licked.

"Oh for the love of... Fraser, you just ate at Ma Vecchio's, you can't still be hungry."

"Diesel oil," he said, and looked up. "The vehicle that they left in has a small leak. That, combined with the tyre tread should make it easy to follow."

"The rain will have washed away any oil."

"Dief will still smell it. And the rain means that the treads will be easier to follow."

Ray turned and kicked the wall. Wincing, he turned back and glared at Fraser. "You and your wolf are officially the weirdest people I've ever worked with. All right then, we'll give it a try, you freaks."

Fraser stood, and smiled to himself. Ray had just called Dief a person. Maybe they were on the same wavelength after all.

"Come on then," he said, "let's go."


	10. Woefully out of Condition

Steven stood at the dockside, breathing hard, and trying to regain his cool. How dare she... how dare that woman make him... make him... make him feel so utterly foolish? He was not used to feeling anything, certainly never foolish. He hadn't felt like this since he was... what... Five?

Dammit, Stella Kowalski was not his mother. He wasn't going to take it. He gritted his teeth. He'd leave her. Leave her tied to that chair for a while. Leave her long enough that she'd be pinching her legs tight to stop herself from wetting herself. She was his prisoner after all. He could do what he damned well wanted. By the time he'd finished she wouldn't be laughing at him any more.

The idea of regaining control of the situation calmed him down. He started to consider what he had learned.

So, Stella was somehow mixed up with the Russians? That shouldn't have surprised him. Obviously, they had intended to double-cross him all along. Stella was going to inherit everything from her mother, and she must have some kind of deal going her mob friends. She looked after them legally and... what? They invested her money? She could end up unfeasibly wealthy if she pulled it off. For a moment he considered if there was any chance of fixing things so that they could marry, then shrugged it off. He was an expert at seduction, but Stella was not the seductable type. Shame, really. That Kowalski of hers, he must have put her off men. That's what you got for slumming it with that type of person. Served her right.

Damn, the more he thought about it, the more he realised that he had misplayed his hand. He should have just gone along with the stupid old woman, said, 'Clarice, I understand... I don't care about the money, I only want you.' Then he could have worked on her after the wedding. He had behaved most unprofessionally by losing his temper like that. He'd lost not just the money, but any insurance that might have come his way when the old hag died. No way he could marry her now. Clarice might be stupid, but even she must have finally realised that he'd been playing her. What, he wondered, was wrong with him? Why was he making so many mistakes these days?

It was, he realised, not his fault. It was just the stress. His ponzi scheme (and he hated to admit that was what it was, but it was about time to call a spade a spade) was beginning to crumble, and he needed a fresh influx of cash, or the whole thing would collapse, leaving him with nothing. Leaving him in prison for fraud, if he wasn't careful. This deal with the Russians was supposed to fix all that. But for the deal to work he needed Clarice's money... and damn it, he was going to get it.

But... could he trust the Russians? And what the hell was Stella playing at?

Ah... now he got it. He nodded. Stella had plans for her mother. It was what he would do, in her position. Make sure that she was inheriting the estate, then organise a little 'accident' for the old woman. Maybe have her accidentally take too many pills, or stumble drunkenly in front of a car...

Well, the old hag didn't know what Stella had planned for her, so at least he could still play on her fondness for her daughter.

And who would ever have expected that one, anyway? Clarice had always been such a... well, such a bitch where Stella was concerned. The whole school knew it. No wonder the girl wanted her mother dead. No wonder she had made a deal with the Russians...

Damn. He needed the money. "Stop wasting time," he muttered under his breath. "You've still got an ace up your sleeve. You've got Stella, and if the old cow wants to see her again, she's gonna have to pay up."

Squaring his shoulders he nodded to himself briskly. Time to go hit up Stella's mother, see how much value she put on her daughter's life. And then, there would be nothing left for Stella to offer the Russians. See how they'd like her when she had no money up her sleeve. Once they realised he was the one with all the power they'd deal with him, instead. They'd have no choice. He was going to get out of this. They were all against him, but he was more than a match for them. If there was one truth he clung to, it was that Steven Packer always came out on top.

…

"Fraser," Ray was huffing as they jogged through the rain slicked streets, "you ever considered... that Dief might be wrong?"

"No, Ray." Despite his cold Fraser seemed to be holding up better on this impromptu marathon. "Dief knows what he's tracking, and where he's going."

"Great. Have you ever considered that... shit, I can't breathe... have you ever considered... ah... that cars go a lot... ah... faster than people, and they might... ahha... be thirty miles away?"

"I certainly hope that's not the case..."

"Can't we... just get a car?"

"How would we see the tracks in this light? We need to keep on foot."

"I hate you... aha... Fraser, if this turns out... ah... to be a wild goose chase..."

"Hmm."

"Hmm what?"

"I think I know where he took her."

"What? You got... ah... voices in your head now... telling you where they went?"

"No..." Fraser had turned a corner, and was disappearing. Ray doubled over, clutching his knees. He couldn't hear what the maniac was saying.

"Frase, hang on a bit..."

Fraser stopped, Dief reluctantly running in circles, while Ray struggled to catch up.

"I'm sorry, Ray," Fraser said, eyes crinkling with concern. "I didn't realise."

"Didn't realise what?"

"That you are woefully out of condition."

"Hey, watch it, buddy. I can... ah... I can still kick your ass if I have to. What..." he paused and sucked in air as Fraser waited, somewhat impatiently, for him to catch his breath. "What were you saying? Where's he taken her?"

"He turned off left here. This road leads to the docks."

"Shit, of course it does... I mean, it heads to a church and a drive through as well, but he's not gonna take her there, is he?"

"It seems unlikely. He's probably taken her to the Russians."

"Shit, why didn't I think of that?" Damn, he'd been so distracted by how wiped out he felt that he'd not been able to think of anything much. Shit.

Ray took off running, exhaustion forgotten. With a yip Diefenbaker overtook him, leading the way. Fraser brought the back of his hand up to his face and let go of a spectacular sneeze, then started again with his measured rhythmic lope. This time, when he caught up with Ray he timed his steps so they kept pace together. Ray's face was pinched and pale, and he didn't say a word, saving every breath to keep on moving.

"Don't worry, Ray," Fraser said, reassuringly, "we'll get there."

Yeah, Ray thought, yeah we will. Cause if we don't...

Shit. He couldn't think it. Keep running, he told himself, that's all. Keep on running.

There was a distant rumble of thunder, and it started to rain.

…

Stella had no idea how long she had been waiting, but she was gradually losing her the adrenaline high. The more time passed the more she was aware of fear creeping into her veins. The only thing that kept her fighting was the fact that she damned well wasn't going to let anyone know she was frightened. Remember, she told herself, remember that you've got an advantage. Yeah he's stupid. A shaky laugh trembled past her lips, and she forced herself to calm down. Seriously, she reminded herself, he's not expecting me to fight back. He's going to come through, expecting me to be tied up, and I'm going to...

She pictured herself swinging the chair into him, and him somehow intercepting it. Pictured him hitting her again, or even worse firing the gun.

Oh God, she wasn't going to let that happen... Damn... as if all this wasn't bad enough, she wanted to wet herself.

Outside she could hear the gradual thrum of rain striking the hull, getting louder and louder. It must be pouring down outside. For a horrible moment she wondered if he had set sail, then she realised that she hadn't heard an engine. She knew boats... couldn't remember the first time she'd been on a yacht, but she did remember her father teaching her how to sail. There were no waves rocking them, no wash against the bow. She must still be at the docks... And even though her perception of time was probably off, she was sure that the sun would be down. All she needed to do was take him by surprise, grab his gun, and lock him in his own stupid little room.

Yeah... all she had to do. It seemed, with each passing moment, to be less likely that she would be able to do any of it.

No... she was not going to crack up, or fold under pressure. She never folded in court, and she wasn't folding now. Even if he did end up defeating her, she wouldn't go down without a fight.

Oh God, now she heard thunder. As if things weren't menacing enough...

Above her came the sudden sound of creaking, footsteps on the deck. She started to tremble, feeling her hands slick cold with sweat. Keep it together, Stella, she told herself. You can do this...

The footsteps were coming down the stairs. She gritted her teeth, wiped her hands on her skirt, to dry them, and grasped the chair.

The footsteps stopped outside the door.

I'm gonna kill him, she thought, as her knuckles went white.

"Stella?"

Oh thank God. She dropped the chair with a clatter, and banged on the door. "Ray? Ray, I'm in here."

"Yeah, we know. Fraser's wolf told us." Ray's voice sounded slightly off, as though he was breathing hard or frightened. He laughed. "Don't worry, we'll get you out of there. Stand away from the door... I'm gonna shoot the lock."

Stella stood back, flat against the wall. Despite herself she flinched when the shot came. Before she could berate herself for her display of nerves the door swung open, and Ray barged through.

"Stella," he said, and threw his arms around her. For a moment she let go, falling naturally back into the comfort of those arms, then she pulled herself back together, and stepped out of his embrace. Now wasn't the time for either of them to get confused about feelings.

"Thanks Ray..."

"Thank Fraser. He's the crackpot who got us here."

Fraser was on the other side of the door, looking considerably the worse for wear... dressed in what she assumed were his 'civvies,' and, like Ray, soaking wet. For some reason it was more startling to see Fraser scruffed up than Ray. She shook her head at herself. What a stupid thing to be thinking about.

"Let's get out of here," she said, and stepped gratefully through the door.

"Good idea, Stell." The relief in Ray's voice was palpable. Then he spoke again, a catch in his voice. "Jeez, Stella, did he hit you?"

"Yes," she said, tightly. She knew she was bruised, and there was no point denying it.

"Hell," Ray snapped. "I'm gonna kill him."

"Not if I get to him first," Stella muttered, and pushing past the men and wolf started marched up the stairs.

…

Clarice wasn't answering his calls, but he wasn't, after all, too surprised by that. At this time of day she might still be in her hotel room, but equally, she might be in a bar some place. Packer wracked his brains, trying to figure out where she might be. He was sure he could find her... sooner rather than later though, he thought. He wanted to get to her as soon as possible, so that he would have her ready in the morning, when the banks, and her lawyer's offices, opened.

He tried the hotel first. The young woman behind the reception desk gave him a suspicious look, and he realised that Clarice had probably told the staff to warn her if he was on the way up. Damned vindictive cow... Well, he could get round that. He could get round anything.

He walked up to the desk, and put on his most sincere face. He knew he was bruised, but he also knew that it hadn't affected his good looks. And, as it happened, it suited his purposes right now.

"Hello," he glanced at her name tag. "Martha? I just wanted to..." he let his voice trail off, and looked vulnerable. "I just wanted to know if you've heard anything from Mrs Hamilton?"

"I can't discuss our guests," she said, still looking distrustful.

He sighed, and allowed himself to slump slightly. "It's just I... oh, I shouldn't be saying this. But..." again he allowed his voice to fade, and he looked distantly just behind her head, as though he was wrapped up in his own thoughts. "I'm just so..." he turned his gaze on her, and allowed a pained expression to flit across his face. "I've been trying to get her to see her doctor, I've just been so worried..."

"She needs to see a doctor?" Martha was looking concerned. Good... this was working.

"You must have seen her... well, I'm sure you've seen her... Oh dear." He turned his head and looked to the floor, as though ashamed. "You must have seen her when she's been drinking. At first I thought that... I thought it wasn't too serious. But that was before I knew..."

"Knew what?" Martha seemed to have dropped all her reserve. Packer contained his smile. Now he had her hooked.

"She's got a condition. Oh... I feel so guilty saying this... I only just found out. Her daughter told me." He looked back up at Martha, with an expression of grief. "She has bipolar disorder. She's supposed to take her medication... but apparently her prescriptions haven't been filled for months now... and she's been... well... her behaviour's getting more erratic. She..." He swallowed, and looked away, allowing his hand to flit over his bruises. "She's been violent. She... she's not like that. She needs... she needs help."

He waited in the silence of the moment for just long enough, and looked back at Martha. "I really... I really need to help her. I need to get her to a hospital."

"Oh, God..." Martha was looking at him with a mixture of shock and sympathy. It was obvious that she thought Clarice had hit him. From being the bad guy he had become the victim, the spurned lover who forgave his abuser. "Are you sure... I mean, she's up there now. We can call a doctor."

Aha, so Clarice was still in the suite. Good... He gave Martha 'the look,' the one which had worked on nearly every woman since high school, and continued.

"Please don't call a doctor yet. I... she'd be so ashamed. You've got to let me try."

"Okay... okay. I'm so sorry, none of us had any idea... We wouldn't have sent up the wine if we'd known."

"It's my fault as much as anyone's. I should have realised there was a problem when she started changing, when she started drinking so much. I only realised when..." he moved his face in such a way that the light bounced off him, highlighting his black eye. Martha winced in sympathy. "None of us had any idea she was getting ill, until recently. If... if she won't come with me, then... please, do phone for help. But... I've got to try. God, I hope she'll listen to me this time..."

"Yes, Sir... again, I'm sorry. Good luck."

He smiled at her, radiating gratitude. "Thank you so much. I'm just glad to... to get it off my chest." He put his hand over hers and squeezed. "Thank you," he repeated, and set off at an urgent trot for the elevator. He was back on top of his game, he thought. He could practically feel Martha's anxious gaze on his back.

Yeah, he thought, bitterly, thinking of Clarice, no doubt in a semi drunken stupor upstairs. I've got you now, bitch.


	11. Lavender and Cooties

Stella had been right about the weather. The rain was coming in sheets now, visibility down to nearly nothing. The few lights that shone along the docks were washed out and streaky. Dief, as they passed their dull glimmer, looked grey. Glancing at Ray and Fraser she realised that they looked like they'd been swimming. At this rate, soon, so would she.

"Where's your car?"

"We didn't bring a car, Stell, Fraser here and Dief were doing their sniffer dog thing."

"Oh, for goodness sake..." she huffed with frustration. "We need to get to her..." She started to run, or tried to, and slipped. Her shoes were not designed for running at the best of times, and the wet concrete beneath her feet was practically a skating rink. Fraser put his arm out, and caught her.

"Don't run," he said, "we'll get you home safe."

"What are we going to do? Swim there? I've got to get to my mother before he..."

"I know, Stell," Ray said, "just follow me."

He strode on ahead, and she felt her lips thin, slightly. She knew he meant well, and she was incredibly grateful he had turned up when he had... but this whole 'take charge, cowboy in a white hat' thing was very, very irritating. Also irritating was the fact that she knew she was being unfair. Fright was still bleeding through her, and she wanted to lash out at somebody. Unfortunately Packer wasn't there, and she realised that if she wasn't careful she was going to lash out at her rescuers.

And damn... she was mighty pissed that she had rescuers at all. Damsel and distress did not look good on her. Frustrated she flapped at Fraser's arm. "I'm all right," she said, releasing herself, "I can walk, you know."

Fraser gave her space, and walked alongside her as they followed Ray.

"What the hell does he think he's doing," she muttered, watching him stride into the middle of the road. "Oh good God," she shook her head in dismay as he took up position in front of an oncoming truck, with his right arm sticking out, displaying his badge. Fraser stiffened for a moment, and started to run.

"Marvellous," Stella sighed to herself. Two men playing hero, just what she needed.

"Oof," Ray let out a grunt as he hit the ground. "Fraser! He was gonna stop!"

"He was going to run you over."

"Oh, for pity's sake..." Stella stepped to the side of the road, and stuck out her thumb. The next truck stopped.

"Hey, lady," the driver leaned out his open window. "You all right? What are you doing, standing in the rain?"

"Getting wet," she laughed. "But thank you for stopping... could you give me and my friends a lift?"

The driver looked suspiciously around him, and spotted Fraser and Ray, whose efforts to get up from the tarmac were being seriously hampered by the loving ministrations of Dief.

"They're not drunk, are they?"

"Believe it or not, no. These two fine specimens of manhood are in fact police officers."

"And the dog?"

"Police dog," she said firmly, keeping 'wolf' to herself. "We need to get to town, quickly."

"Okay... someone been roughing you up?"

"Yes," she said, tersely. Good grief, she must look bad if he could tell that in this light. To make matters worse, Ray and Fraser, who had finally made it to their feet, were standing beside her looking chastened. To tell the truth they resembled nothing more than men who had been in a bar fight with... well... a wolf.

Fraser sneezed massively, and Ray gave him a dirty look.

"You know, I'd love to help," the driver said, dubiously, "but I can't take a detour into town..."

Oh hell, she was losing him...

"What am I thinking..." Thank God Packer had left her wallet. If he was after money (and she was sure he was) it was a lot more money than she carried on her. However, what she did have would be more than enough to compensate this man. "Look, I know that the police will clear it with your boss, and in the meantime, I can pay..." She pulled out a sheaf of money, and held it up. "This is really, really important."

"Okay," the driver finally made up his mind. "You and your friends might as well jump in."

"Thank you," Stella looked at the men standing on either side of her, and smiled. "You're a life saver."

Perhaps literally, she thought, her mother coming back to mind.

After all that messing around, she could only hope they would arrive on time.

…

Clarice was, as he expected, drunk. Drunker than usual. Normally, at this stage, she would be drunk and boozily flirtatious, but she appeared to have drunk herself into a stupor. Damn... he'd wanted to be able to work on her tonight, get her into a pitch of panic where she'd do whatever he said. As it was, he'd have to wait. She'd take a while to sober up enough in the morning, but at least, if she was comatose, he could make himself comfortable. Taking a vicious pleasure in it, he rolled her off the bed. She landed with a thump. He'd sleep better tonight, knowing that the old hag was stretched out on the floor. And if she threw up, she'd know about it for once. He was sick of cleaning up after her. He imagined her reaction, if she woke to vomit in her hair. Tough love, they called it, didn't they? Allowing an alcoholic to suffer the consequences of their drunkenness. To hit rock bottom so they knew they needed help.

Well, there was no love in what he was doing, but she'd know when she woke up that she'd hit bottom. And she'd do anything to fix it.

Yes, he smiled to himself. Finally, he was getting back on track.

Spreading out casually on the bed he phoned the lobby.

"Martha?"

"Yes, Sir?"

"This is Steven Packer. I just wanted to thank you so much for letting me up here. Clarice is... well, she's a little bit better. She needs some rest, but I think we can wait until the morning before I take her to the doctor's."

"Are you sure? We can..."

"No, no. Don't worry. She's doing okay... she agreed to take her medication, and now she's sleeping comfortably.

"I'm so glad, Sir. You phone down if you need anything at all."

"No, thank you. I'm fine. You've been very good to me."

"Thank you, Sir," he could almost hear her blushing.

"No, thank you," he replied, amused, and hung up the phone.

Well... what could he do while he was waiting for Clarice to wake up? He pursed his lips, and gazed speculatively at the television. It was late, but there was probably a rerun or ballgame on somewhere. There was an adult entertainment channel, but it mightn't be the thing for a concerned boyfriend to be watching. He should try to stay in character...

He made himself comfortable against the pillows, and turned the television on. Clarice had left half a bottle of wine. He might as well pour himself a glass...

Oh, good. A Western. With a grunt of satisfaction he turned up the volume, and got lost in the story.

Clarice groaned, and mumbled in her sleep.

…

Martha was still chastising herself for not having done more to help that poor Steven Packer when the front doors opened, and three very disreputable looking individuals walked in. She sat up and stared at them with open hostility. A huge white bear of a creature was shaking water all over the lobby.

"Is that a... is that a dog?"

The man with the black hair slicked to his head opened his mouth to speak, but the very irritated blonde woman put her hand up assertively to stop him, and stepped right up to the desk, dripping.

"Look, we've come because one of your guests is in danger. I know they don't look it, but these guys are police officers and..."

"Stella," the blond man was looking belligerent. "We can introduce ourselves..." He shook his head, dropping water everywhere. "Hey, lady," he said, "don't give us that look." He thrust a badge in her face. "You've got a Clarice Hamilton staying here..."

"Yes," Martha felt her confusion lifting. Of course, they might not look it, but they were here to help that poor woman, and Steven Packer. "She's quite safe. She's taken her medication, and she's sleeping. Her fiancé is with her now..."

"Her what?" The blonde woman's voice spiked with alarm. Martha glanced quickly around to make sure no guests were in earshot. Thank goodness it was late... the last thing that they needed was a scene...

"Excuse me," the dark haired man spoke, calmly. "Martha? We need a key to Mrs Hamilton's suite. I'm afraid she's in considerable danger."

"No... no, like I just said, she's got her fiancé with her..."

The blonde woman folded her arms across her chest, and fixed her in a ferocious glare. "Earlier today her fiancé, as you call him, pulled a gun on me, kidnapped me, tied me up, and beat me up. I'm sure that he's not got anything pleasant planned for my mother. So... give us the keys, now."

Martha's mouth dried. Oh... Good... God. She had just made the worst mistake of her career...

Fingers trembling, she grabbed the spare key to the Hamilton suite, and handed it to the blonde woman.

"Thank you kindly," the dark haired man said, as the three made their way to the lifts.

She could swear the blond man was saying something about kicking Packer in the head... but she must be mistaken. She watched, concerned, as he passed a gun to the woman. Kick him in the head? No... A police man would never say a thing like that...

…

Packer was just beginning to doze when the door creaked open. Room service, he thought. Probably Clarice ordered something before she passed out. She often got the munchies this time of night. Good... he could do with a bite to eat.

"Put it on the table," he said sleepily. "I'll get it later."

"You'll get it now," came a female voice, "you bastard."

For a moment the silhouette standing next to the bed looked disconcertingly like Clarice. Clarice with a gun. Then the light came on, and he saw it was...

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. How could he fix this... there had to be a way... there was always a way.

"Stella," he sat up, scrambling to adopt the right persona. What would work with her now? "Are you all right? I'm so sorry about..."

"Don't you dare," she said. "Don't you even think about smarming your way out of this one." She had an odd smile on her angry face. "You, my friend, are in a lot of trouble."

"Oh, I'm sure we can work something..."

Ah. Oh shit. Stella was not alone. She wasn't even the only person in the room with a gun in their hand.

Kowalski, also pointing a gun, and another guy, gunless, but with a...

That was a freaking wolf.

Oh... shit.

Kowalski walked up to him, grinning like a kid on Christmas morning. "You, Packer, are under arrest."

Behind him, the dark haired man sneezed, then stooped, lifted Clarice gently, and carried her to the couch. As he did so, the man's wolf bounded up on the bed, and shoved his muzzle into his face, snarling.

…

The next few days were a blur. The press were persistent, but Stella did her best to avoid them, succeeding for the most part. Her mother, on the other hand, lapped up the attention. Stella cringed... she couldn't understand why her mother wasn't ashamed. But then, her mother had always craved the limelight. Finally she was getting it in spades, and she wasn't about to let it go. She didn't even seem to mind that the press was divided between portraying her as a victim, and portraying her as an old... well... what was the word? Tart.

Poor mother, thought Stella. She wished that she could have been enough for her, that anyone could have been. But it seemed like there was a hole in her mother, somewhere, that she had missed out on something growing up, and had been trying to fix it ever since. It made her sad to think of it, but she'd never know what the problem was. She doubted even her mother knew.

Finally, a full week after the kidnap, she had put together every single scrap of evidence that she could find, detailing not only what Packer had done to her mother and herself, but also what he had intended to do with the money. It came as a shock to everyone when, finally, facts came through that could be used to nail Domnin and Krutov. Packer had been suspicious from the start, and had recorded several of their conversations. The investigation into the activities of this branch of the Russian mob had been going on for so long that for a while the justice system didn't quite understand what had fallen into their lap. Once the penny dropped, however, things moved quickly. It irked Stella that Packer was going to get a reduced sentence for sharing his testimony against his erstwhile co conspirators, but he would, at least, serve jail time... He seemed, at this point, to think that he could wriggle his way out of this as he wriggled his way out of everything. But she knew that, even taking his testimony against the Russians into account, he would be in prison for no less than ten years. Probably more.

So, yes... she should have been feeling better than she was.

"Hey, Stella." Ray met her at the steps of her office. For once, she wasn't annoyed to see him.

"Hi Ray. How are you doing?" They started walking together, the decades of their friendship settling on them as they kept perfect pace. He could still... he could still made her feel comfortable.

"I'm, well, you know. Okay. Better than Fraser."

"Why, what's wrong with Fraser?" Since the rescue and everything that had gone with it, she was feeling rather fonder of Fraser than she used to.

"Oh, he's all right. He's just getting over a cold. Probably never had one in his life before. He's at the Vecchios' right now, being mothered." Ray grinned. "Ma Vecchio's feeding him hot chocolate, and Frannie's in heaven."

Stella laughed. She'd seen Frannie around the station, making eyes at the poor Mountie, and seen the way Fraser carefully deflected. "Well," she said, "at least he's being looked after."

"Yeah, he's in good hands. Listen, Stella..." He looked at her, with that peculiarly intent expression that used to precede his declarations of love.

"Yes?" She spoke cautiously.

"I just wanted to say..."

"Oh, for heaven's sake. Spit it out so I can give you the brush off." Now she was upset all over again. Did he have to constantly make everything so complicated?

"No... not that. Sorry Stella. I just wanted to say..."

"What?" This time she spoke more softly.

"You've been, you know, really strong about all this. I'm sorry if... well, you know. If I came on like Sir Galahad. You know. Trying to be..." he scratched his head, as though trying remember a word. It made her heart ache a little. He often lost words when he was anxious or worried about something. "Chivalrous."

"Chivalrous?" She smiled. The image of Ray as a slightly battered knight errant appealed to her.

"Yeah, yeah." Ray sounded embarrassed. "I thought you'd laugh."

"No... no, Ray. I'm just..."

He looked at her, eyebrows raised.

"I'm remembering something."

"What?"

Her smile broadened, and she walked a little closer to him.

"When we were teenagers, you used to write me poems, remember?"

"Oh, God, no..." His whole body seemed to clench up in a cringe. "Stella, they were awful."

"I didn't think so."

"Yeah, well, thank God I didn't save any of them. If anyone ever read them, I'd never live it down."

"I saved them," she said, and looked, carefully, at the sidewalk.

"Oh..." he looked at her, questioningly. She stopped next to a tree, looked up at its branches, and turned to smile at him.

"'Remember, dear, beneath the tree,

my lavender queen,

kissed by the breeze,

that I will love you,

and you will love me,

as long as the leaf is green on the tree.'"

"I wrote that?"

"You did. And... it's true, Ray." She blinked, suddenly blinded. "Even though... even though it's fall, and the leaves aren't green any more. I do love you. I always will."

Ray spoke, but only with his face. She knew that look. She knew all his looks. He knew... they both knew, that it was over. Their season had come and gone. But...

She stood up on tiptoe, and kissed him, gently, on the cheek.

"Be happy, Ray," she said. "You deserve it."

There was a lot else that she wanted to say, but she knew herself, knew him. Knew them both. If they talked too much they might get caught up, yet again, in their complicated history. For now...

It was enough to know that it was over. And that they had both loved.

She reached out, and patted him, then straightened her purse on her shoulder, and walked away.

…

Fraser was sitting on the couch, nursing chocolate, when the door opened. He looked up, and smiled to see Ray being hustled through by Sophia. She was bambinoing him.

"Hello, Ray," he asked. "Are you all right?"

Ray looked at him, with a slightly sad quirk on his face. "Yeah. Yeah... I'm fine."

Ah, Fraser thought, he's seen Stella. To distract him he said, "you really should try some of Sophia's hot chocolate. She uses real chocolate, and cream..."

"Oh, I'm fine... I'm not staying long."

"Have some chocolate, you silly boy," Sophia gave him a little smack on the arm. "It's good for you."

"No, honestly I..." Ray stopped talking, with a sudden look of alarm.

"What's wrong?"

"You... I've got a tickle."

"A tickle?"

"You gave me your..."

"What?" Oh dear... his friend was sounding angry about something...

Ray sneezed.

"You gave me your cooties." He glared at Fraser, and sneezed again.

"Chocolate, now," Sophia Vecchio said sternly.

Ray sat down on the couch with a sigh. "Yes, Ma," he said.

Fraser shifted his weight to give Ray more room. 'Cooties,' he thought, and tried not to laugh.


End file.
